the writing of poetry

I've been thinking about poetry again. Writing it, that is.

It's been a few months since I have had even a thought of a poem floating about. I guess haiku are real poems, so if we count those, I've written a very small few on Instagram. Yet I haven't had the heart to let my feelings flow enough to find paper and pen, so to speak, in quite some time. I want to write; however, I have led myself to believe it will hurt more somehow to allow poetry to speak of these things that wound me to the core. These things that are anything but poetic. Or maybe they are, only they aren't the happy sorts that tide you over in life.

I don't want to cause more harm to myself or others. I don't want to cry anymore.

These specific wants will never be fulfilled, of that I am certain, yet my hope is earnest, and I no longer wish to write of things that stab and sting and pinch at me like an allergic reaction choking me to death. I wonder how I will find my way to the place I want to be. Maybe this poetic silence is choking me. Maybe I need to write to witness the journey, the bridge that spans the gap, getting me where I belong.

I am not sure how or when, possibly tomorrow or next week or next month, but I want to write poetry again. I want to find words for my dreams—even if it hurts to hold onto them.