Today I looked at these empty pages and wondered what happened. What happened to the words that use to fill the spaces and somehow told the secrets I hide from myself? Maybe I stopped feeling or been so busy trying not to that I’ve forgotten that I still do it.
I never wanted to be a poet. I just always wanted to be real. To make sense of the tears. Make sense of the heartache and love I feel. This was never about mastering a craft. This was always about not feeling alone. See, the thing about poetry is you can never tell who this is about. What if these were all my stories? What if they were about someone else? Would it change the way you read between the lines? Would you be willing to write about what you hide in the dark?
Peace and Beautiful Beginnings
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