I’ve hit a bump in the road
A brick in the wall
A fork in the path,
If you will.
I’ve sacrificed my creative tongue
For an early nights sleep
Maybe I’m finally just too happy.
My words are accustomed to
A cynical tone, sometimes defensive,
Often in pain.
But I’m happy now,
And I can’t seem to channel
The way I used to feel into
Words worth reading
And now I’m stuck.
I will not pen poems of roses and rainbows—
No. that is not who I am. That is not my poetry.
My voice pulls out the harsh reality.
But somewhere between falling in love and moving to a beautiful place,
I have lost my sight, my vision so clear of the pain and suffering so many endure—what I used to feel daily.
So I write.
I write now in hopes of bringing a voice back.
In hopes of channeling my inner monologue to say something profound…
Or worth reading at the very least.