We used to be so familiar,
words and I.

I would wrap the words
around myself,
like a warm fuzzy blanket,
and they would spill
out of my fingertips
and on to the paper,
twisting and turning
and writhing and squirming
into stories I had no control over.

So I fancied myself
a writer
and poet,
a master of words.
I needled and nitpicked,
hashed and bashed,
misused and abused
the words I loved so much
in a vain attempt
to contain them
and create myself.

They left me.

Now the syllables
and consonants
and vowels
I treasured so much
are strangers,
They no longer tumble,
one on top of the other,
on to the page.

They struggle
and fight with each other.
They disagree
and get scrambled
until I have nothing more
than a messy page
and frustration
and nothing to show.

So I am not a writer.
I am not a poet.
I am simply a lover
of words.
Maybe the words will come back
to me
and we can be familiar
once more.


19 thoughts on “I Used To Be A Writer

Add yours

  1. I hear this. I go back and forth with blogging for that reason, getting so frustrated with trying to find something that used to come to me so easy. Lovely poem, sad but hopeful.

    Liked by 1 person

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