Again.
A part of me thought I would never write again,
but knew I would.
These words, although they feel foreign
as I type them, are as familiar to me
as all the dreams I thought I'd lost but were
merely tucked away in the
guarded safe of my heart.
At some point, we have to question the
places we've been.
What have I left to say but,
"I was afraid that the very thing I loved, would fail to be enough."
And that's the truth.
Somewhere deep inside of me
was the memory of a time I could sing
sonnets with my fingers with my eyes
closed, when the world was everything
I could put down on paper and
nothing that I couldn't.
And now, the only real difference between
the me that was,
and the me that is now, is that
time has made me more cynical
than I ought to be,
but hasn't quenched the flame,
hasn't stopped the fire, hasn't made me forget
what it's like to
miss the words
I never
wrote.














