It's funny really, writing gets sparser and sparser
As days turn into weeks into months into years
The daunting task of putting pen to paper daunts higher and higher
As expectations overtake words and writing is lost to fears
I used to come here to bleed
And without pain, what kind of a writer am I really?
But then am I naive enough to think that there is no more pain?
Or did the pain need to be more emotional?
More threatening?
More linked to absolute f*cking survival?
Because I still hurt
And I still grieve
And I still lament
But perhaps not like before
Because there's always room for love in the heart now
And with love comes hope
They're very good friends
And they love him
His cherishing, his support, his care
The darkness cannot overtake or overwhelm
His sun-like bright and joyous presence
So is he the anti-dote to sadness
And yet the cause of me being away?
What a neat little way to explain away my apprehensions
I'm in love
A little too in love to even make time
For paper
Or words
Even as they run through my brain constantly
I think it's a beautiful excuse
But it is that
An excuse
To forget, to erase, to leave behind
Because when I write,
I remember
When all I want to do,
is forget.
