lost

i once found solace in letter and word but now my notebook feels like a home from some lost childhood where you learned all the bad things about life and quickly forgot them. i could weave passages, deadly like a spiders web; passionate like honeymoon nights…once. only now i’m so easily lost around corners and bends and everything that makes letters distinct individuals. maybe i’ve lost all my corners and bends and am not distinct myself, just this idea-less mass flowing through time, hoping someone can do something, anything with me. i feel a lot like a book with crisp empty white pages–no story to tell and would even be happy with dirty fingerprints, anything to fill my sheets. to be tainted must be better than being empty. someone taint me please. writing isn’t like riding a bike. you can so easily forget. i  become frustrated like a retired athlete looking at pictures of his glory day as i look at older pieces, memoirs of that time of solace. i recycle it all and throw it to others like it was new so i can get a few pennies of pride. but really the only thing that would make me happy is to have something to call new and mean it. i don’t like living in yesterday.