[Sometimes I draw, sometimes I write]

I am neither lost nor found, looking, or hiding.

I am here, neither trapped in my own breath, or free from my own sorrow.

I am here, once forgotten, and asked to stay put. I could not.

Deficit of patience, abundance of prose.

I cannot keep silent, but I will not yell.

There was enough screaming…the loudest that echoed in a wind of silence.

All that I had to give, gone. Reassurance rests in faith, not in resistance.

My calm looks like chaos, and my chaos like calm.

I cried over my losses, and I wept over my gains.

I was tormented by my wins, because they always seemed like a restart.

Restart, resist, recompense.

You don’t get some things back.

At the onset at the best of things, new things, you pause.

New things that are good to you and good for you…you take a moment to recall that which was snatched from you.

You remember the moments you were disregarded and shoveled to the corner like old snow, 4 days after the storm.

No longer soft, but it won’t melt. Disregarded, shoveled, put on a shelf, because you look pretty.

Only used for special occasions; tended to in preparation for the finest dinners.

Attention to detail, small cracks.

You are not a new thing.

But you are the best of things. Not just for the fine dinners; but for daily bread.

Morning mysteries and night time nourishment.

Not old snow, permanent sunshine.

Sometimes a cold breeze that irritates you when anticipating summer’s winds.

But still a sunshine.

On your worst day, you are the best of things.

Restart, repeat, recompense.

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