Writing

Familiar is this earthly language, these archives full to the brim. 
It must be how the world got magic, these rhymes of life and limb. 

The four gas stations on each of the corners

Hover over the town,

But they don’t define it.

It doesn’t define us,

Neither does the churches

With clipped voices and narrowed eyes.

I fought

I fell

I rose

I broke

I reassembled

Different

But still me

But what is me?

 

I am hurting

I am hopeful

YWP to me is a safe place for young writers to share their opinion where they are not pushed down, instead they are lifted up high. 

And it's all back

Full-fledged

Only it's... worse?

It's harder?

And I am completely "fine"

And "enjoying myself"

And "fitting in".

I take the homework home

And complete it within half an hour.

how did words once flow

like water

from my mind?