We're back to poetry again.

I know that no one cares, but it makes me happy here. A page that I can express myself and you can see if you want to or not. A journal, but not. Maybe I want someone to listen. I post this here for all to read, knowing the likelihood that none will see.

I'm not an artist. What is an artist? Probably not me.
Nor a poet. I know it.

I only write when I have no where to go, don't I? Maybe I'll keep this.

I feel so odd...Like I belong by not belonging. And until now I thought everyone would understand, with the knowledge but not belief that some wouldn't. But its been proven.

I need to not let go, but allow myself room. I won't think of it as a leash, but some room to roam about and find myself. Or make myself. I still am.

I love to speak in the abstract. I'll never know what I speak of, will I? Do you? No I don't, do you?

Its like letting emotion onto a page...A virtual one for quick expression where my thoughts won't be lost. "I love you," I want to say. I won't let myself, but I have before.

What will I do with this when I am done?

Not read.

I'm in love with a concept. Maybe I actually am. I don't know what it means.
I was in love with a figment of my mind and what I wanted it to be.

Maybe I should stop.
I'm overwhelmed with a sense of "Welcome back to us...To us who don't know what or where to go now."
Their little hands reach out and I am covered. I accept it.

I shouldn't let it get to me.

I won't. I feel like Ben from that book, who was Mark. After the First Death.
I can't say I know who I am but I was just remotely reminded of it.

I think I'm okay now.

I hope we can work this out.

Maybe all I needed were thoughts expressed. They felt confined. Acceptance is what they needed. I feel like crying I'm so relieved.

It'll work out. I just need to keep a tad of the old life in and revisit sometimes. But who do I visit? My old life isn't real.

That's the truth in so many ways.