as it always has been

I miss writing poems words flowing through my mind thinking while it's blank at the same time emotions being felt, expressed with or without the rhymes writing like this has never been my style but deep down, somehow, it feels like it is body and soul changing ever so constantly yet somehow at the same time, still the same at some point in time, it stopped being about the rhymes writing without it feels different, yet still familiar it was never about how I used to write, but what story the little boy inside is wanting to tell diving into the deep, the pressure is intense months of holding one's breath makes him change ever so slightly the rhymes missing, format unfound, emotions slipping through coherence gravitating away, yet still somehow present maybe the point is that there is none maybe the journey is never going to end maybe the little boy has never been gone and maybe, there's no more reason to play pretend accepting the uncertain, living with the unknown lying on the ground, embracing the dirt and grass cruising through the storm however messy it may get doing all there is to do for the little boy inside