A lump forms in my throat at the thought of placing words in their places like shoveling dirt on a casket.

Like every living day I swim further from the shore while my mind remains landlocked,


Picnicking with my emotions,
Enjoying it as much as two rivals could.

In the end the mashup seems harmonious,
Like the dance of two blades,
Each with a wielder who finds drive and desperation in each blocked blow,

Hope and solace in each hollow swing,

A thousand whind chimes choking each others sound into oblivion,

Or otherwise sounding shrill and panicked on their own,

Theres a duality to it all,
Lose some and find some,

Let some live and let some die,

Keep some safe and ship others far and wide,

I've forgotten where my mind was,
I suppose I've pushed it off somewhere if that's how it works,

I suppose that's not how it works,
And it will  come floating back.

I'm doing well,  I'm still moving forward.

Only slower now,
More cautious of who's caught in the wake of my journey.
The thoughts of victims passed surface here and there, but they dont float for long before they gurgle back below the surface.
Where they belong.
Our odyssey has seen us lose many moons time caught in storms and whirlpools,
There is none left to dawdle with,
Only enough to finish the journey.

I rest easy,
With no time for troubled dreams.
I keep my eyes forward,  
Set on finding the truths obscured by the mystery of life, and the beauty therein.

I'm never alone on my journey,
I'm thankful for that always,
It makes the days breeze bye
When they feel the nastiest.

I'm mapping the coast as I go along,
Making note of the fauna and flora I can see,
I'll keep it close,
And stay the course as long as fate allows.

I used to feel the words flow from my fingertips like water waiting eagerly to drool from the open mouth of a faucet,
now I feel them shoot directly from my fingertips with an ultimate intention of their destination, or at least the summation of the amalgamation of each sensation they could evoke ,
i wrote, to find some clarity in my thoughts or emotions, finding it easier to pick apart and choose rights and wrongs in a literary format.
Now I write because at times I simply must or my soul my burst from the hot air my ego pumps into it, writing is like turning a pressure valve, like applying a healing salve, like blowing your nose and clearing the debris,
writing is like waffles with butter and maple syrup
writing is fuckkkkkk
writing is something I love but have been neglecting my passion for as of late,
I think I shall once more seek its embrace.

OK,
my shine bright, but my mood chill,
got my mind right, its time to build,

Looking bsck its like a dream,
So many sunsets,
So many blunt wraps,
So many moments taken for granted I could write 5 books with the memories that slipped through the cracks.
All I think I want is to read that book