I've Been Trying

I’ve been trying to write for so long that my pen has begun to feel like an old cloth,

aimlessly brushing built-up dust from untouched paper.

Words don’t seem to flow as easily as thoughts do,

and my mind can’t seem to conjure up the right ones to write.

I’m afraid that if I don’t write enough,

the words will stop coming.

They will stop coming like they did for so many years,

the volume of their silence drowning out everyone who tried to uncover the skeletons in my closet and the bodies buried in my backyard.

I’ve been trying to speak for so long that my throat has made a pact with my tongue to never utter a syllable worth listening to;

my lips have tied themselves into knots,

sealing themselves off like envelopes with no end address.

I have made friends with the quiet,

it’s lack of sound speaking louder than I ever did,

it’s emptiness making more of an impact than any simile I ever hid behind.

I’ve been trying to remember for so long that my brain picked a fight with my soul and in the end,

neither of them won.

My memories have been collecting cobwebs in the farthest corners of my mind,

flirting with the possibility that maybe,

there’s a reason I haven’t been able to fully breathe.

But I’ve learned that the value of a heart isn’t determined by elaborate poetry or speeches worthy of bringing even the coldest soul to their knees.

We weren’t made to dwell on past memories or get high on each other’s crystallized attributes to lessen the pain of yesterday and today and what is to come.

We were made to feel.

Even when we feel nothing at all,

our skin is anxiously waiting to erupt in goosebumps,

our hands are begging to be touched,

the tips of our fingers are longing for someone to see beneath the outward facade and help fight away our ghosts of the past and our demons of the present.

I’ve been trying to do so many things to no avail,

but somewhere between blank pages and fleeting recollection,

I found myself again.