Breathing Life into Dreams

I used to call myself a writer.
I used to need to write
not for the finished product, but for the act of it.
Not because I needed to be heard, but because I needed to speak.

Because if we don't set them free,
how do we breathe life into
these dreams that we dream?

I used to write to exist.

Does that mean, that in the absence of inspiration,
that I was living half a life?
Because, in that time,
I. Loved.

I loved so big and with a force so strong,
that it carried me away.

I loved so much that I was lost.

So how do you write when your words are not your own?
When your voice is drowned out by the chaos,
the current
of a love that's not right?

You don't.
You don't fight the current,
you go along in the direction you are pulled.
And you wait
To be spit out by the sea.


And when you reclaim control,
collect your senses,
can feel,

you turn your back on chaos.
Make your way to a place of peace.

A place quiet enough to pick out
the whispers of new dreams.

A place where your voice has value.
Maybe even some magic.

A place to build a home.
At. Long. Last.

I used to call myself a writer,
but now I can see,

That I shape my life
with the magic
of my dreams.