I haven't written in a very long time. I think of myself as a 'poetic hopeless'. The last real poem that I actually composed was last year, for a 12th grade Yearbook publication. I'm not that much of a story writer, though I do write them on occasion. But I think poetry is a more fitting artistic extension of my personality and character. There is so much more to unravel between the lines, so much more to perceive underneath the illusion.
I'm not one to open up my true feelings to anyone; words have always escaped me where my heart is concerned. And then when it finally explodes, it becomes evident on the ink that smears the pristine paper.
I have not done so in a while. Now, for the first time after a very long time, I am cornered into this muddle which requires me to seek out my pen once again. And this prompts a disconcerting thought into my mind - am I still a writer that I once was?
I guess there's only one way to find out.