Writing

I started to write a long time ago,

Confined in words and phrases which sowed,

My thoughts, my expressions, the ways in which I saw the world.

I was whipped, I was hooked, and boy, was I whirled.

Something about it, told me it was right.

I spent my mornings, my evenings, but at night,

I bought more meanings, explored new currents and such.

Nothing was ever enough, but it wasn't much.

It began a sort relationship, something symbiotic, perhaps.

I was looking for methods, to the point of collapse.

I stringed words together, connected them well.

Could they be worth something? Would they sell?

I wasn't out looking for a bargain.

Nor did I want one at that.

I only looked for answers,

From those who wanted to chat.

I realize now, in my time of solitude,

How roughly the waters run.

When words used to smell like roses,

And sentences felt ripe.