Nothing worse to a writer than meeting blank pages on the daily and not meeting the rhymes or the lines she dreamt of on the night before the dark ages.
The past year was one of my best writing years and it got me thinking; what the hell, Universe? How can a year that breaks you so stand out like a sword? I get it but I don’t. Still navigating my field and the feels, so old yet so real, and so new to getting used to my truth.
Going through the highs and the lows, or should I say the blues of living your truth, which sometimes won’t add up ‘til your heart is all jacked and used. One day, it’ll all make sense, but patience until then.
The verses, then, will flawlessly flow and you’ll know because it’ll wake you up at night; the sleep you’ll fight, but your notes you’ll write, knowing in daylight you’ll be back to feeling alright, in spite of life.
