I notice the change,
inevitable, gradual,
in me.

Once, writing was only mine, with glee.
No feelings rehearsed,
no rules to cage me,
no grammar standing guard.
Just my hands guiding,
and my heart speaking.

Why is it that
the things I find solace in,
home in, are always temporary?

Out of syllabus.
With no expectation weighing,
Comfort existed.

Now?
It is gone,
exiled within its own home,
wounded somewhere distant,
never meant to be found.

With teary eyes
that blur even my cries,
I watch
the words
which mattered,
that carried weight,
transition
into something hollow,
a broken shell,
polished and professional.

Why must expression fit a box?
be bound by chains so tight?

Words became home suddenly
a dull lecture, no peers,
me slumped, writing things
that stitched themselves
into raw art.
Beautiful.
Alive.

Since then,
a collection was formed,
made with fragments of me.

Now it is formalized,
aligned,
carved to fit,
ruled by those deemed brilliant,
worthy,
by sacred books of language.

I wait for the day
in which I write
not to be read,
but to remember
how it feels to feel.