And some time in Fall 2015, my soul’s flow of poetry has been threatened,
And since then, words, scenes, and meanings have never been the same as before.
Presently, he’s taking care of my heart, after it rusted for a while in the corner of a dark room.
He’s wrapping my soul with a thick warming love that I’ve never thought I’d feel from him.
The unknown, the uncertain, they’re becoming more clear, less blurry, less scary, like an old man or woman after a cateract’s surgery; being able to walk with better vision and more confidence.
What more do I need to do or have to go back to my old self who was fluent in poetry and who managed to reach a certain threshold of satisfaction after every piece?
Why do I feel like someone in me is still scared of something?
Why is there sadness creeping in the cracks of my subconscious?
Why can’t I rely on myself for reassurance and stupid happiness?
Why can’t I just release this fucking stress and tell him how sad and worried I really am instead of overthinking about being a burden?
Why am I relieved a bit for at least writing this down, even though it doesn’t solve any fucking thing?