When my words got stuck, my
professor always used to tell me
to start with this:
'I want to write about how.'

I want to write about how,
I want to write about how -
I want to write about how my
writing isn’t bringing anyone home
to me. As beautiful as it may be, it’s
hands and paper and a whole lot of
empty. And on the nights when it feels
like the framework of my chest sighs
under the heaviness of nothing and
everything in between, I only hope

that this isn’t what makes it
worth reading. I only hope that
I am someone worth believing in
past the semicolon of my sadness; I
only hope that there is someone sitting
in the ink of my next chapter, smiling,
knowing, this isn’t the end of my story,
knowing, I’m turning the page soon.

"Lost Muse in an Empty Bed" -valentina thompson (via theseoverusedwords)
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