The old poet once said, "If you do not start to write your own story,
someone else will try to write it for you,
It is either good or bad; a story the writer decides".
I don't know what happened to me;
Poetry was once my everything.
Now I've lost my free spirit, my way of life.
I've been so distracted that I lost focus on what's mine.
My words, my pen, my paper.
All things fell out of sight.
My mind drifted off from what kept me sane.
I let depression and emptiness take away what was mine to enjoy.
Doubting myself, wondering if I can even do it anymore.
I spilled my heart out onto the paper.
Nothing makes me feel more alive
than my pen and my paper.