The day before yesterday became this morning

My thoughts are silenced. My words are not enough. I cannot illicit the type of emotion from my readers that must come for words to come to life. When reading, there is no inflection in these words, no way to tell what my intention behind them is. The difference between a good writer and a great one is the ability to draw emotion out from the reader. Without ever meeting you these words should grip your attention like a satin vice, gently caressing your attention while holding your intrigue like a bulldog. There should be an intertwined interchange of ideas as you read what is written and process it in your wit and intelligence. But I am not capable. These words are found dripping like molasses in February; boring and flaccid. How sad a day that i cannot write with the passion and persistence that I once could. And yet... it doesn't matter does it? Who reads this? I do. It is therapy. It always has been.