I was never out
of words to write.

In its peak, it overflowed
with such substance,
such raw
passion, might not
worth for greatness
but it felt true,
full of
meaning.

Wrote
for the
purpose of
knowledge,
dabbled with
genres a lonesome,
hopeless romantic
like myself
would do.
Wrote to please
the eerie depths
of my being,
and in short,
wrote to
express and
impress with
mediocre
skill I have.

Yet just
like all great
fiery sparks,
will soon
turn to embers,
eventually grows
cold, without
something
to kindle
it back to
life.

Maybe I'm
now
in that
phase,
or maybe,
have been
for so
long, I forgotten
to rekindle
myself.




© Coated_Peanuts