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Writing feels..elusive lately.
I used to feel safe with words -
being able to wind truth into often convoluted
ideas where sometimes even I look back and say,
"what on Earth was I even referring to here?".

I've never been a good communicator
[still always so nervous of a reaction that would indicate
me not being taken
seriously
or worse yet - being refused. As things with me always tend
to be cyclical in nature.]
so finding solace in one form of being able to empty
thoughts out of me was somehow comforting.
I'm hoping that after a brief warm-up
(so to speak) my old safe havens will return.

---

My limited experience with bravery
dictates that it is nothing
more than the express to
heartsick and disappointed. Leave the
black knight and usurpers to those with
stronger mettle - I've been burned enough
that I don't feel the need to taunt a dragon.
[However, if given the right armor I may
change my tune. I've never really known
how to let anything sleeping simply lie.]
Minor burns from lessons supposedly
learned seem as if they are ancient history -
lore from a long forgotten time of damsels
and gallant folk - almost ridiculous enough
that it would have to be fiction.
Certainly nothing exists that is so harmful
that it would destroy with so little as an exhalation.