It was the suddenness of it all. Do I move on or do I fall, Back to a place of familiarity? My feet flee but my soul stands in solidarity, With what once was. What felt right. What’s been keeping me up all these nights. A.
Insomnia Revisits.
Fog.
Sometimes, I write. Other times, I let my soul cry out. The difference is clear as fog. A.
Nothing Has Changed.
I’ve swapped stars for butterflies, Erratic patterns for fairy light trails. Can you imagine my walls no longer absorb light? They emit it. No longer glow but, illuminate. As for me, I no longer write. Instead, I let my thoughts aggregate. Saving the punishment of a deep realisation, For the version of me that will …
Finally, A Sentence.
I wrote a sentence today. It’s the first thing I’ve written in months, The only thing I want to write for the forseable future. Why? Ofcourse I wrote a sentence, it’s literally the first sentence of this poem. So matter of fact, yet so plain. Like the first sentence from out conversations Off point but, …
Hey Big Head.
I’m back again, Creating literary pieces of art While everything within and around me falls apart. I’m back to being inspired by pain. A.
Here But, Not Really.
I convinced myself that I would miss you when you're gone But I miss you right now Knowing that I have already planned my departure. A...runner.
Reunions.
Fear My old friend, We meet again. You’ve won in the past, But this one’s special. (Update - it was not) A.
Growth.
You are not just growing For the sake of growing. You are fulfilling a prophecy, Stepping into your destiny. In this realm, it all makes sense; The backlash the hurt, The tears, the distrust, The series of events, They all led you up to this point. They created this version of you. This heart, this …
Indecisive With Colour.
Imagine the world in monochrome, Nothing but varying shades of black and white. Would this still feel so wrong Or would it finally feel right? Because I wouldn’t have to filter through shades of grey, Attempting to distinguish cruel from unassuming, Or nostalgia from deep longing. I wouldn’t have the luxury of range. Maybe indecisiveness …
Happiness vs Creativity.
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 …
