To Self:

There exist too many moments when your words
refuse to flow from brain to waiting paper.
Awkwardly they stack, one after the other,
like a pile of dirty dinner plates
ready to be rearranged or thrown away.
But since you love the hardship, keep on stacking.
This will serve as a reminder, there is no pride
in easy.
Forget your fear, the challenges, the absence
of talent.
The whiteness of the paper is not a dish
or a wall,
it is the snow waiting to receive your footprints,
for you to softly place your boot down
just right, and loop a trail of letters stretching
into distance,
where you will embrace the valiance
of perseverance
and control that long-standing ache –
the throb, the pull, the catharsis
which comes with breaking apart a piece
of the world
and weaving it into language.