I wrote something new
but then ripped it in half,
tried writing again
but I couldn’t go back
to the feeling that lied
on the black and white lies,
the feeling that lied
on my ribcage inside.
I wrote something new
but realized it old,
the same words from past years
of rhythm and coldness
and nonsense of
missing and reminiscing
and limbo and fishing
for something new to write.
I wrote circles around this,
tried to get past this,
found it awful to carve it down,
carve it outside me.
like dragging old bones
and expecting them to walk,
waiting for time to work
and light to search–
And so I stopped writing.
To pull away for a moment,
to stop digging and picking
and to let the light grow
was needed.
there was the winter and rest,
the killing snow and rain
for replenishing, healing,
and washing away.
So no more empty words,
no more torture of ruminating to
illuminate something in darkness.
there is just today,
with a clean page
and a fresh start
to write with boldness
concerning the truth.
