There was once a point in my life where you couldn't keep me from writing.
When the ink would flow from my pen in an unending stream, pouring my consciousness onto paper.

I have not lost myself,
At some point though, I stopped loving myself the way I deserve.

The poison of criticisms had seeped their way into my mind and forever altered the chemistry of my brain into an acidic soil deprived of nutrients.
The winding weeds of doubt overtaken all the space, coaxing their way into every crevasse.

I struggle to pull these weeds out at their root, feeling as though I am constantly nipping at fresh buds, overwhelmed, as I cannot find the spaces beneath the surface where true problems lie.

Can I just throw out all this tainted soil  and begin anew with fresh dirt, or am I to spend a lifetime pulling at weeds trying to make room for flowers and food.