There was
a time when
my mind
spoke to me in verse
weaving a
delicate thread of
metaphors,
symbols, imagery so
rich I
could taste it on my
tongue.
A sweet
release for the soul
was a pen
pressed to paper,
the only
expression of what
I saw,
what I felt.
To say it
was effortless would
be a lie
at best, at worst
arrogance
parading from my
fingertips.
But to
say it was strenuous
would be
no less untrue.
A time
when plot and characters
were not
my concern.
When I
wrote for the sake of writing.
And that
was enough.
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