I’m happy now.
Although, I fear I wouldn’t be able to write again
Because my poetry feeds off of pain,
Off of long suffering.
The fear of rejection,
The pang of uncertainty.
Things which now feel like a distant memory.
Like someone else’s reality.
I have comfort and compassion,
Peace and perhaps, something more than affection.
I have everything but, my gift
So I have nothing.
A.
