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.

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