I used to enjoy playing with words,
twisting around nouns, stepping past verbs
sprinkled with basil, thyme, sage –
I wrote lyrical herbs.
I used to dance around alliteration,
like a free Freddy, I’d forget the fucking frustration,
like a tall tree, I’d taste the temptation,
light up their eyes with knowledge, and savor the sensation.
It once brought joy, this game of poetry,
An ode to you – but mostly, an ode to me.
Treating here like a place I ought to be,
Building a fortress – that these words might bury me.
I once knew my way around sentences,
ducked and wove past, present and future tenses,
Looking for the taboo – jumping over fences,
Pursuing the truth, avoiding false pretenses.
I used to write just because I knew how to,
Writing what I wanted – not what I ought to.
Because the word in my mind aligned just the way they should,
I used to write just cos I could.
I used to write without coming undone,
without destroying myself, without jumping the gun.
I used to chase the madness – without any plan.
Truth be told, I used to write just for fun.