I am lost in the pursuit of poetry, every precious line stamped out by the fear of feeling too much.
I am lost in the persecution of myself, constantly battling the struggle within
The lack of a voice where my own should be.
The struggle with silence in my head and the emptiness in my hands where yours should be, or a pen at the least.
I never thought the road to my dreams would be this lonely.
A little wobble here, a stumble there, waiting for a familiar tug to guide me.
The same tug that brought me you… the greatest thing I almost have.
I suppose I will pick myself back up as I’m used too.
I’ll reach inwards instead of out to steady my traitorous feet.
If I trip at least I know my empty hands will catch me.
I’ll save the pen for softer ground and compose symphonies in the silence of my clouded mind.
And I will walk alone until you can be completely free to make the journey with me.