Sometimes I get too emotional for poetry. There’s so much going on in my head, memories and feelings and endless noise.
It swirls around like a tornado, picking up good sentences and throwing them back down on the page, in an order that makes no sense whatsoever.
I’m silent on the outside, but on the inside I’m fighting a gruesome battle.
When I’m busy fighting said battle, I withdraw. Like a shy snail, I retreat.
This is painful to witness, and I know it, but I have no choice.
Happiness leaves on a plane, with a one way ticket. To book its return I must pay in misery.
If I could do anything right now, I think I’d visit my younger self. Five years old, maybe.
I’d give her a hug, watch her play.
And I’d think about how I don’t want to let her down.
The simple fact is, I think my five year old self would like me.
That thought, somehow, gives me hope.
I will win my war for her.
Little Me, this one’s for you. ❤