This is my relief.
Writing is where I put it all out there. My feelings become vocalized in encrypted code—just enough truth to lighten the load; just vague enough to not see it all explode.
The teetering thoughts that make a home in my head are evicted and sentenced to pages instead.
Yet, I can’t break free from the seeds that I’ve sown. The roots that entangle me are absolutely my own. To uproot and transplant, and go somewhere else, would cause harm to my family, my friends, and myself.
So, I stay. I am biding my time until I wither away. Holding in what I need to say. Lying awake at the end of each day, retracing the paths that I took along the way.
I wonder where I would be now, and if there might be a way to still get there somehow.
I know that these thoughts are a long shot at best, and that any thoughts of running would be only in jest. But I still want. I still yearn. I’m still searching for passion in the flames as I burn, every bridge, every memory, everything I hold dear. In my own reality I am the seer—my future is frightening; I see it so clear. That’s what brings me here.
Fear.
A Poet’s Qualm 