I've missed this;
This thing called writing...

It creeps into my mind like a virus
And it seeps into my core as I absorb its kindness.

I never intended to stop this feeling I get of
Becoming myself when I write; it just happened.

Every night the virus clung to my lungs
And asked me to produce ****** poetry.

Just when I thought the pain was gone,
The silence would tear my heart apart.

I realized then and now that I cannot fill that void.
That void I feel when poetry is not present in my veins.

The doctors tried everything.

Observing my perplexing behavior and
My countless fits of crying and depression.

They didn't know that writing was still nagging me
to scribble my unending thoughts on paper.

Writing was one of my dearest friends.

He was always there when I needed to express myself.
In a way he was my shoulder to cry on or my happy sun.

Although I tried to **** him,
He forgave me and gave me another try at this thing called writing.

So here I am.  
I'm back from the literary dead.
And this is where I plan to remain.