Stop writing long enough and all you need to do is write one word.
One word turns into another and another, and next thing you know—
You have sheets and sheets of words formed into a flaming heap
Resembling the state of your brain or mind or whatever it is you were losing.
The words mean things that are not very happy
Because you are not.
And those words stare back at you like Truth often does
Telling you things you did not want to acknowledge.
Unhappy is the real cut-to-the-chase truth if you want to know the truth.
Living too long on the last line of pages filled with nothing
But the same story written over and over with different details
To keep things somewhat interesting.
Holding out hope that one more string of words
Might be the ones that fix me.
Sofa time and getting charged by the hour,
With so little to show for all the work,
Write another word and then another
Like learning how to walk again—or breathe again—
My pen, my therapy.
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