I fell in love with writing at a very young age.
Diaries with locks,
composition notebooks became journals,
novels turned into secret hideaways for my words to be scattered among the chapters, but suddenly I stopped.
My words lost its flow, my hunger to pour out starved and my enthusiasm to drown my sorrows in words was no longer existent.
I stop believing I could emotionally engage my writing.
I believed writing served its purpose in my life and I was done with it but every time I talked about it,
I start with I use to be in love with writing and now it’s a faint memory.
Though everywhere I go and everything I say,
slides off my tongue and rolls onto paper like glue holding together every corner of that page.
I am a writer in my own way, lost in the limbo of words that crawl through my thoughts and house in my brain.
I am free to express myself and allow my thoughts and feelings to be conflicted and compressed together.
I fell in love with writing and use to think I’d fallen out of love, but I’ve missed you.
The simple glide of the pencil in my hand,
kissing every line on the page,
leaving marks to be remembered and words to be spoken.
The hold you had on me is now something I can’t live without;
for words gave me a voice and writing was my escape.
I use to think I got lost in my writing but over time I realized,
I found myself in words,
I fell in love with writing.
ericaaknowsbest 