The more time I spend
pen on paper
the less real it becomes
and suddenly it's gone.
I'm unwriting my own story
filling books with thoughts I think
beliefs I believe
all unfounded.
Lines bound like my hands in the war of forward momentum,
shelved and stored and otherwise set aside
until I feel I've grown
and might want to look backwards.
Is this a waste like so much else?
I could be scratching my own timeline into the crust of the earth
but I'm tracing written elements
into something that is so easily closed and forgotten about.
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