I stopped.
I stopped writing.
For some reason, I just…stopped.
Writing used to be my salvation, my grace.
It used to be the medium by which I poured my soul.
Yet somehow, someway, this task has lost sensation; become
banal.
I wish. I want. I pray.
There once was inspiration.
There once was drive.
I miss this honest invitation.
I miss the heartfelt thrive.
Is this a poem about writing? Maybe.
Maybe I’m just looking for attention.
Or maybe, I’m not judging. I’m
free. I’m playing. I’m putting words to the page and allowing
myself to fail. Fail magnificently. I am a failure. I have not reached the top. I loom in the middle making bargains with the
judge.
I miss my past.
I miss what once was.
I miss having a home and knowing.
I miss playing outside.
I miss having dreams.
Now they’re just agreements, negotiations.
“Logically, I have to stay in this position for X number of
years. Once N number of dollars are
saved and E number of children are produced, I can change.
My mouth is dry and all I can think about is being with
you. I miss you. I miss this.
I miss this with you; no cares in the world.
I’ll find my dream again.
I’m not sure how, or when, or where.
But I will find it.
