Lost

It needs to be written. But the days pass by and there lacks the time. To write something beautiful, or something that makes my heart rest. I have forgotten how to press my fingers to these keys, I have forgotten how to release emotions through ink on paper. And the paper, it lies there, empty, and me I stand here open and full. There are so many things I want to change. I cannot write them out for fear I have already done so. What can be new, newly written? I do not know. I do not understand my purpose. I stare at this paragraph and am smitten with regret. For choosing the life that commits to led, for choosing the life that perhaps is not meant for me. I cannot write something beautifully. I can only write this, for now. And I am smitten with regret that I can no longer stare at my words with a sense of satisfaction. A sense of relief. It no longer comes over me. Where are the metaphors, the similes, the metres and analogies. They have escaped me. I have escaped myself. The self I hated for so long. I miss that self, and I am afraid she has drowned. She has drowned in places of not feeling good enough. How do I collect those water drops and piece them back together again? How do I find that self that was hated but was needed. I need her. I need that hated self. She was the only one who found an escape through words. She is now lost. I need her back because I need those words. I need hate. Hate is able to be changed. I cannot lose it. I want to change it.