write a letter when you don’t know what else to write

to: -----

from: me

i don’t know. can writing be a ghost? it’s haunting, the poetic words echoing inside my skull and the one-liners hanging from the ceiling fan. picking up a fine point sharpie, index card slides in front of me- it’s like this, you see, lunacy pricking the skin and somehow you’re writing thirteen words in five lines and have the audacity to call it poetry.

word wall’s hanging by a pin; my fingers trace the words, aching to soak them in; but there’s no moving it, my soul’s screaming while my heart’s bleeding; conflictingconflictingconflicting.

there was a reason for this letter, i swear; but now it’s like forcing a chef to cook and it doesn’t feel right. tell me, can we share small victories? can we take each day like a pebble or stone and hold it as our own; let’s build our castle of victories and if they burn, they’ll be diamond rings.

shortest letter i’ll ever right, with a point far deeper than meaning. taking a break from writing doesn’t mean leaving, it means healing. but that’s what happens when you lose your muse. when you lose your muse. when you lose your muse.

we’re okay, you’re okay, i’m okay too.