painting has become a painless medium

writing has become a windy, chilly day

reading has become tiresome and avoided

the seasons of my interests and hobbies

are changing, quickly sometimes

others - slowly, at first, and then a whirlwind of sadness

painting my emotions and what could have been

is exhausting, but the result is worthwhile

most of the time

writing has become a thing that i would like to do

the end result is praised and needed,

but the process is terribly saddening as i doubt myself

reading is a portal away from my existance

but opening up this portal is taxing on my health

so i don't get away very often

my only releases have dried out; used up

as i try to figure out how to swim in my reality

but, i failed all of my swimming lessons as a child

i don't want to drown anymore

but i don't want to fail one more time

and give up trying