Lines Between Living

I sat down with the intention to write a poem.

Not to impress, not to perform  just to let something honest come through.

But almost immediately, the questions arrived.

Is it good enough?

Will it be understood?

Will it reach anyone at all?

What starts as a desire to express something real can so easily turn into self-surveillance. I wondered if my words sounded cliché, or worse self important.

As if wanting to learn the language of poetry required permission. As if feeling deeply was something to apologize for.

So instead of writing, I stared at the page.

Negotiated with myself.

Edited thoughts before they could even breathe.

Days passed like this. Pages stayed empty. Not because there was nothing inside me  but because I forgot why I started writing in the first place.

The truth is, my words were never meant to convince anyone of anything. They weren’t meant to be understood by everyone, or even received at all.

They were meant to be a form of healing.

And they still are.

When I remember that, the page softens.

The pressure dissolves.

And the poem writes itself not for an audience, but for my own becoming.