The writing stays. I wrap it around me like
A blanket, like a superhero’s cape.
Friends drift. Size doesn’t matter and
Sometimes is downright
Counterproductive. Age happens—and
That’s the soft option—bringing its own
Aches and pains. But through it all,
Beyond it all, the writing stays.
Oh—you already did!
I love the poem. I’m struggling with depression/anxiety/worldangst now, so your poem acknowledges that.
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