I write a version of the same poem everyday.
It pours from my lips in a whispered breath
and stays stagnant,
its letters etched upon the air.
This poem is a reminder to keep going,
to try something, anything.
Most days, my brain hopes to convince me
that staying is better,
that out there is scary,
that out there is sad,
that I will get lost if I dare
venture away from safety.
I only ever tell you
about the days when the poem wins,
the days when it drowns out the other voice,
and I stand up and face the world,
mighty in the morning’s victory.
But those aren’t the only days,
so I will keep rewriting, rewriting
until my poem is better
or until I’m better.
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