Start Again (2021)

“Start writing again” he said.
As if words are like well trained dogs,
That come when called and know when you’re sad
Or happy or need love or distraction
If only. If only words were that simple,
Or that well trained..
“Start writing again…please.”
The “please” is a nice touch,
But it doesn’t make them come.
It doesn’t pull them out of the dark recesses
The static filled, white noise that is my mind
Politeness doesn’t pull something out of nothing
Or form a creation when there is nothing to create
There is no masterpiece hidden within my frontal lobe
I wish there was.
“Just write about me. Us. Write about life.”
What life? The stress of money, my failure as a parent and a partner?
The arguments with my father,
That feel like beating my fists against a brick wall and expecting to crack it,
The lost friendships that weren’t even real.
The loneliness? Constant loneliness.
Aimlessness. Pointlessness. Repetitiveness.
Needing to feel needed even if it’s by strangers on the internet.
Wanting to feel important because of a little symbol next to an online username.
Finding family online because my real family are more like acquaintances.
“What about us?”
What about us? Should I write about how worthless I feel?
Or how…how I don’t know how to make myself feel
what it is you want me to feel.
Or rather, how I don’t know how to show what I feel
because those feelings are real.
But my brain moves too fast, needing constant stimulation,
So I forget that words are only words
And actions speak louder, but I forget to complete those actions.
And so I stay silent.
Should I write about my regret? My mistakes?
My dreams for a better future?
Should I write about being surrounded by masks?
Literally, and figuratively.
My exasperation with everything that is going on in the world?
I feel like that’s just beating a dead horse.
It’s been done so many times.
“Start writing again.”
Happy writing has never been my forte
I feel a kinship with Poe in that regard.
I thrive in the darkness while trying to stay in the light.
If that’s not an oxymoron, then I don’t know what is.

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