Oh, desk.
Oh, ink.
Phrases
and pictures and
paintings,
crafted by weary hands
and a troubled mind.

I’ve longed to feel
any coherent pass of
words through my fingertips.

Anything that fits or
even makes the least bit
of sense.

But I’ve been dry.

Stuck.
In a hole,
a ditch,
that I can’t seem to climb
out of.

And my, how things have changed.

It’s funny, almost,
how right when you begin
to get comfortable with yourself,
when you think you know who you are.
You realize
you don’t.

Everything familiar is
yanked from your grasp
and you’re tossed
carelessly
into another world
of realization.

You aren’t who you thought you were.

And you want to find yourself again.

But to do so…
oh, if it were only as easily done
as it were easily said.

Friends. Family.
What would they all think of you?
If you just up and changed on a whim
because you didn’t “feel right.”

You suddenly don’t know anything
about yourself anymore.

And you aren’t sure if you want to do
what you think you have to.

Decisions, decisions.