My Old Friend
I used to love this so much
The ideas in my head, so vivid and alive
Thriving at the creation of pen to paper
Engulfing my mind around characters where I played God
Staying up late just to finish a chapter
Utilizing my lunch hour to elaborate on a thought
Jotting down any ideas that came to mind because I thought they were gold
I hate feeling the disconnect of what helped me to express myself
What used to come so naturally is now crawling for attention through this poem
As I write, I wonder if this first attempt after years of emptiness do my tears justice or is it a cry of my inner-self finally being acknowledged like an old friend
I poured my heart out in a way that I had never done before
I serenaded to a lover with a beautiful harmony but she heard a broken record
A poem was nothing but an ensemble of words on a white paper to her
My love for writing hid away just as soon as the final words left my mouth
Her disregardment of what was said made me shy away
Embarrassed to of even existed
Now as I struggle to find a way to end my torment of writing this self-loathing poem
I contemplate if it was even worth the trigger of emotions it reincarnated along the way