Re- Written Confusion

Everyday it feels harder to put my feelings into words,

where this was once the safest place to escape to,

Now my days are clouded by consistency,

where my pages and thoughts go untouched,

my feelings are feeling more unknown to me more then ever,

I will serenade my tales to my friends,

perfectly taped up boxes of justification and possibility,

Yet lacking the one thing that makes you excited to turn a page in a good book,

or opening a memory capsule full of moments you forgot about,

I have connections with people in the real world,

inspiration and dreams that could write itself,

but I feel disconnected to the words being written on this page,

I speak of my adventures when asked,

and document my quandaries of uncertainty,

I feel alive in moments of my making,

But then they never seem to make it to the page,

Experience, mentally catalogued and never be known to me again,

What is living in the moment, without processing the tale later?

Have I simply let the world rush me away, without remembering what to say?

My excitement of love feels like something to dialogue,

Something to explain,

instead of the way it used to shape me,

Hold my hand, process my thoughts,

guide me to a light when I felt lost,

now the thoughts just exist in the same room as me,

no literary expression,

just a justification in person,

Disconnection,

something that feels more like following logic,

than anything to do with love,

if its even possible for me to feel that again,

Maybe that makes the answer I so desperately desire,

seem already written,

but I am just too stubborn to listen,

or simply I don't want to,

maybe a person who enlightens me to write,

isn't right for my life,

Maybe stability is the new love story,

or maybe I am just in a hurry,

to feel the everything else that comes with someone caring about you,

yet every time I visit home, my heart yearns for someone I once knew,

someone where words felt like one with me on the page,

both in the highlighted moments and heartbreak,

the poem wrote themselves,

the process felt like part of my heart,

an extension of myself,

where the logic came through at the end,

instead of this re-written confusion.