what do i write?: scripts of a disillusioned writer

'This shouldn't be hard', i keep saying to myself. But the blank page before me is a visual sarcasm to my thoughts. 'Don't be fooled', the voice in my head keeps saying. Creativity is far from me like riches from a pauper. I have been imprisoned by my fears and become a slave to my doubts. I'm supposed to be a wordsmith right? Yes, na. Word smith, beat the words into shapes, sorry sentences. I make another desperate attempt to redeem myself from the abyss called writer's block. I conduct a forensic analysis, on my brain not a cadaver o. I search for experiences which have been thumb printed in my memory through my voyages in life. Ah! I have found a few, but which do i chose? Is it the woman whose daughters are being sexually assaulted by their dad. Mba, no. I would write about that Mr Adebisi, that crafty, ass kissing, boot licking colleague of mine who pays more attention to our boss than his work. Well, i pity my oga sha. The man says he is born
again, but we all know that a thief considers himself innocent because he does not have an opportunity to steal. Abeg, i tire. No more writing and playing with 'childish' fantasies. Maybe the literary spirits have conspired against me. I would look for a white-collar job. Or even one without collar sef. I would join the rat race. The only race where if you win, u are never a winner, but still a rat. Hmmm, but come to think of this, i wrote this, didn't i?