Trapped inside this pen, I write the words but they never show on these pages
Try as I may I know the ink has been dry for ages
Bottled up but never sent,
The water in which my darkest insecurities flow does not make it past the dam that builds up as a lump in my throat

It’s depth, which was once only two foot deep, has now become fifty and I am left to drown in self pity

That was until you, a wandering deer, took a chance in the currents that had claimed many before.