Something I wrote September 17th, 2008. This, for me, may be the most beautiful poem I have ever written. I am not sure if I am capable of writing anything like this ever again, and it pains me.
I was so terribly broken when I wrote this. I wrote in this poem what writing means to me in a way that actively makes me feel the pain I was feeling — and how writing wouldn’t help, no matter how hard I tried.
I thought it was gone,
but now it’s come back.
As I lay down, my thoughts begin to snap.
I cannot find the peace and tranquility —
that is to thrive in dream-filled continuity.
Then to pass the time away,
scribbling, scratching, thoughts — ’til I decay.
I eventually crash when the sun arises,
a new day.
Though I despise this repetition,
what I reap in reprisal is refinement.
Reflectively recording all rational thought.
On scattered shreds of my soul…
I wrote recently about gaining my love for music back, and I did also write my first poem in years the other day. However I have not yet unlocked poetry within me. I need that again, it’s my favorite thing about language.
Thank you for reading.
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