Letter to myself

Dear 19 Year Old,

Do you still take the time to write for fun?

Or you lost the interest to pour your heart,

Hand covered in messy aquatic blue ink,

Kissing passionately onto paper,

To write out your decorative creed?

Has it not turned into decay,

And become a part of the Stone Age,

Since technology entered your life?

You’ve now wasting your precious life source.

Day in and day out,

You do nothing but sit,

And stare at the abomination.

Screen after screen after screen.

Laptop, phone, camera, iPod.

Down,

Down,

Down,

Till your neck will need to crack,

Your fingers start to snap,

And your wrists become encased in braces,

Due to your carpal tunnel,

But still you don’t write anymore.

How can you do this to yourself?

Writing was the center of your soul.

Your life,

Your God,

You holy place of worship.

The home to where your Creative Youth thrived,

And died to dust.

The haven the mature self sits in self provocation,

But becomes a waste of space if not acted upon quickly.

Yet,

You know,

And I know,

We all know,

That you need to do it sometime.

Just write,

Right now,

Write till your heart bleeds colorful emotions onto the white canvas.

Write till your mind compresses new words salvaged deep in your cranium.

Write till your soul twists and turns in the inner blanket it hides under,

When it then gets forced into the light and gets examined from the inside out.

All of this is revealed,

Upon your command.

With your powerful strides,

That take up the universe.

With a brilliant blue pen in hand.