Yours Truly, A Circadian Writer

dear reader,

if one day I call myself a writer,

or even if after one day

comes another

and I never do,

this is the beginning of filling pages without worrying of their significance to you.

as a child,

I chopped each idea into a

bite-sized

appetizer.

wedding cakes now teacakes arranged on a platter,

but I never left full enough from the latter.

adolescence stuck my notebooks in the back of the closet.

doomed forever oblivious of

honestly expressing myself.

she laughed

a piercing shrill

whenever I thought of returning them to their shelf.

blind-fold on, freefall,

semester after semester,

destined for world-renowned discoveries!

the greatest unsolved mystery left buried in mind–

self-inflicted turmoil

over an identity I could never really find.

sometimes my existence still eludes me in

blinding daylight,

a lost relative I’ve decided to shun,

but my writing impulse rides in with the setting sun.

seducing me with the scarce satisfaction of

crafting a single line I don’t hate.

coaxing me with the promise of an empty page–

it turns out moonlight is all it takes to dissolve a cage.

newfound freedom is a mother to change.

peering into empty space with a blank stare,

half the time I swear there’s poetic genius hidden there.

late hours, in-between days,

piecing together the parts of myself I was

taught to forgo.

Insecurities crumble to mere punctuation.

I rebuilt what was lost a long time ago.

regardless,

if I made it

you’re out there reading this,

or if I didn’t you’re not,

but to me and my poem

the difference is meaningless.

Yours Truly,

A Circadian Writer