It is time to write. says my heart. But my mind is silent. It’s time to write says my heart. Who aches for the words to escape.

The wishes, dreams, wants, needs, all compile there waiting for their turn to speak but my mind is silent.

“Shh…” says my heart “it’s not time to be logical it is time to f e e l through it. Write your story.”

The paper is blank. The screen is waiting. The time to be, is nothing more than a wish for something greater than me.

What is there to say when all I say is nothing? enough is a word that is full of fear for me. Enough is never good, enough. When will being good enough be enough?

Comfort that’s enough. plenty enough, right? although why is comfort something I wish away? Watch it as it passes by. Longing for its touch, just one more time but allowing it to fade.

enough is something that is just necessary, adequate at best. I say. But oh the desire for it is bountiful. Overflowing drowning me under its heaviness.

Enough, you are not enough.


you are not enough.


Am I, enough.

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