Can I call this a poem?

It always comes back to this.

I trap myself in the corner, gasping for air.


I cannot even write a poem.

The words haunt me with familiarity.


When I see the words, I see my old selves.

Each faint copy of me wafts through the air.


Meaningless, is what I think.

But I know, even if I don’t feel it, that my life is not wasted yet.


I don’t know what to do. I am still trapped.

All my joints ache with tension, in a frozen stance.


Music returns, sometimes at my bidding, sometimes unannounced.

I try to open my heart to its power.


I stoop, but my ears and my heart lean toward the music.

Each melody dances between sound and silence.


The music is endless. My frozen stance softens somewhat.

My heart translates. I hear,










Do not give up.

Your old selves wafting through the air are valid

Your frozen self in the corner is valid

Your fear is valid

You have done more than you can feel or see right now.

See that your faith is valid.

See that you still have it in you.

See that you are not hopelessly trapped

Do not be afraid to trust.


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