The Writing World

The Writing World


For the lonely, literacy is the other world that sustains life when feelings are crushing,
A black hole collapsing upon itself.
All of the things that I never was in this entity of flesh and touchables,
I could reminisce to life I wondered of in the caverns of a lonely mind.
Each door provided me a key, the priveledge to open it with my own humble words.
To write, in times of desperate sorrow is a refuge,
One with which I can recall wethering many emotional storms.
For all the heartache, for all the misery that has come to pass,
There is at last a newness of life that, with healed heart, reminds me where love and happiness had gone when I grasped for them so desperately.
Life resumes, moving swifter now, a dry riverbed merged with flowing creek,
And just a bit of the space in your head that once permitted over-thought misery is filled.
Love has filled my heart with joy, and indescribable warmth,
Knowing you are strong on your own, and happier yet with one to cherish.
All these things fill your life, and then you stop and realize that you once resorted to that other world.
Do you rememer it anymore? Of course I do. That world of writing, of literature and glass.
The sadness of feeling that it is dormant, waiting faithfully for you, and still vivid.
I can have both, but one distracts from the other, and so suddenly, you remember loneliness.
No longer is it for the people I lacked but the refuge that helped me through this exact tragedy.
Oh, how I miss it. So much have I wanted write my heart upon paper, and nearly as many times I have given up.
Is it too late to claim you again, Dear Friend? I know not why I deserve your waiting upon me,
But resoved am I now that I shall cherish and forget you not.