I was good at this once
The words came to me so easily
And I'd scribble them out in ink inside an old notebook
It's not so easy anymore
I stopped writing the words in physical form
There used to be so much to say that jotting it down was too time consuming
It gave the words time to run away
And for new ideas to cover up the old ones
Now
I've said so many things that I am almost raw
No longer a mystery
Just a rock of selfish anxiety
With the same old worries and thoughts carved in deep