Writing is as natural
to me as breathing.
It's how I make sense
of my thoughts and reality.
I place my thoughts on lines
in my journal, it's where
they're safe. I write
with messy handwriting,
though I'd say it's become
more legible over the years.
I am a writer, I am a poet
but somewhere along the way
I lost the creativity that
once drove me. I catch sparks
of it now and then, jotting down
a creative line in my notes,
but the flame has remained
dim for a few years now.
Am I a writer if I don't write?
Am I a writer if I have nothing
to say? These are the questions
that live in my brain, destroy
my thoughts to keep my creativity
at bay. The doubt keeps me stagnant
and quiet. The flame that burnt out
years ago, where did it go? I miss it,
I try to relight it but without a
match, I leave it alone.

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