I haven't written in a long time.
The slave-driving mind of mine forces these chained hands
into spilling ink to canvas.

The woods are crawling with impossibilities,
as the nowhere home calls me evermore.

I walk a distance to find myself back at the entrance of it all.
The alpha, the beginning.

Is this growth? Is this monumental?
--
We give credence to paper.
It's no longer a tool for survival, but a god in our pockets.
A Christmas ******* miracle.
There are times where I'd like to cry,
But as a friend said, "my tear ducts were seared closed long ago."
--
The Forest crawls with impossibilities.
The trees beckon,
and I slowly begin again.