quiet

lethargy's heavy chains bound my pen,

life’s heavy pressure to burst like the bean seed,

silence my brain.

my words once flowed like the rivers wide,

now they trickle, slow, a bit dried, confined.

my hands grow heavy, mind withdrawn, i wonder

have i come to not like what was my only solace?

has the fire dimmed? why? is the spark is gone?

why?

the stories stretch, too far, too thin,

each page a weight i notice is not pulled from within.

i wonder, is it time, to break, to pause? or, a time to rest from writing's weight,

i tell myself, i am doing my best

perhaps, short pieces only,

perhaps then it’ll be effortless ease.

for now, let me breathe, let silence stay,

no winding plots, no grand display,

just fleeting lines, brief and free.

my whispers are caught between my stories

not lost—just resting, waiting near,

until the spark returns, sincere.

and when it does may the words make me whole, again.

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Thanks for reading. I hope you’re well.