2-25-2019
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Going through old poems makes me sad, and I can't exactly pinpoint why. Am I nostalgic for the days, for the stable situation where I could comfortably write three to four poems a day and queue them all? Am I angry at myself for not being able to effortlessly let the words flow from my fingers anymore?

Some part of me fears that this is a part of "growing up", whatever that means. That I've "matured", or that the quality has somehow improved and the quantity has gone down to compensate.

Some day, we won't have to fight like this.