I used to lie awake at night.
Thoughts buzzing in my sore mind.

Of what went wrong
in order for it to go right.

I used to read their agony,
in hopes that mine would flee.

In search of poets with my despair,
thumbs went numb,
eyes dried out,
and I felt dumb.

Now I know how much I’ve grown.
For I now scroll in search of art,
how it should've been from start.

Tonight I find myself
reading authentic work,
your personal rumination.

Old afflictions
aiding in the annihilation
of unworthy reflection.

That's the beauty behind words.
They don't remind us of our pain,
they depict how much we’ve gained.