like make-believe.

i remember that once i had wanted to be a poet. that words flowed through me constantly, defined my life, who i was. now the words are so few and far between, the sentences have gotten shorter and the delivery mundane. i call it writer’s block to those who ask. writer’s block that i have had since around the time i left slippery rock my freshman year. i dont so much think it is writer’s block. what i think is that i have said all that i had to say. or maybe it’s that writing can no longer relieve my stress, it doesnt much make me feel better, and rarely is it what i really wanted to say.
nothing is really what i want to say. the stuff i think about doesnt get written down, or spoke of. it gets locked in the back of my brain for me to know only, so i can deny truths, avoid situations, and forget. i spend every day trying to forget the things i think about, and by the time the day is over, i consider it progress, time passed. and while most people yearn to have someone to tell all their thoughts to, i dont,because if i am the only one who knows then i can pretend that it doesnt really bother me.

pretend.