He was a writer

I try to stay away from the words but, they call to me in anguish and longing. For too many days to remember, I have pulled so many memories from my past, turning them into sentences and volumes I fear I won’t hear anymore.

I tell myself I can look the other way and ignore their haunting melodies of days gone by, but I’m weak, and they are so persistent. I needed the time away from them, especially those that have not yet happened.


Pushed to write again by voices whispering in my ears that only I can hear won’t stop, and I fear madness lurks around each corner of my life. I don’t want to relive pieces of my past, those times of sorrow and innocence that most forget but haunt me endlessly
.

I will write some day again.I will capture a moment remembered, and the words will once again flow. I will escape the awkwardness of the present and the feeling of uncertainty with a melody of sentences that will stir emotions in the hardest of souls
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I will write until my memories, both good and bad, have been relived and forgotten until someone finds my work stored away in a box with no character.”He was a writer,” they’ll say……

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