i miss writing.
when words would rhyme,
and stanzas flowed seamlessly.
it made sense.

now i write on discarded tissues,
line by line, word by word.
all because i can’t form coherent truths.
my phone full of unfinished voice notes.
notebook filled with scribbled lines.

how do i form sentences that stay?
what makes a thought not slip away?
is it the stillness? the ache?
or the quiet truth a heart can’t fake?

i take pauses in between each line,
hoping for an intervention from the great divine.
a nudge, a breeze, anything to realign.
like the tulips i planted late into the season,
and yet they still bloomed.

some words are in cursive,
others printed straight.
where there is structure, there is comfort.
but what if i find comfort in the fray?
in ink that runs?
in thoughts that stray?
in margins where i waste my day?

maybe this is writing too,
a kind of chaos that rings true.
not every thought must sound like a song.
some truths are honest,
even when they are wrong.

it’s a beauty that’s lawless
in all its rawness.
not what i set out to write, but still mine.
and somehow,
it makes sense.