Back then

the pen had joy to bring

in seven year fingers.

Each word a smile brought forward

the broadest of futures.

 

Light shone through

gaps in the beat of the rhythm

but it never mattered

because I was writing.

 

The world was enormous.

Space opened up in large doses

and everything meant more than just form.

 

Come back through the smoke

and I am now

less than my worst case scenario.

 

I have not invented language.

I cannot create the famous.

I will not change the world.

 

Back then

I would not have chosen writing

if I had known

That writers must lose their innocence

Twice.