Ink Between the Lines

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I thought I’d been writing,

this journal my proof

but pages whispered silence,

forgotten months spoke truth.

Six entries here, none there,

consistency a thread

I claimed to weave

yet same old patterns slipped instead.

Was it failure? Or just breath…

a pause where I withdrew,

tracking habits, chasing time,

learning what is true.

I start off strong, a steady flame,

but somehow fade to grey,

like new behaviours, fleeting joys

that quietly slip away.

I’m trying to figure things out—

this life, this self, this flow.

A lonely child with quiet thoughts

the world just didn’t know.

Too intense, he said last night,

too serious, too stern,

perhaps that’s why, in younger days,

the friendships failed to burn.

Am I too hard? Too sharp?

Too much for those around?

Do I take life and twist it tight

until it can’t rebound?

This entry, yes, it wandered,

derailed, it lost its form.

Or maybe in its broken arc

it found a kind of norm.

A scattered line, a fractured thought,

a dot that doesn’t stay

yet strangely, in this tangle,

my truth still finds its way.

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