Somewhere along the path o my life I lost myself. I wanted to be famous. I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to be an author. I wanted to be an actor. I was a happy kid. Despite the fact that my teachers told me my stories were not good. Despite the fact that lovers told me I couldn’t sing. Despite the fact that people said my drawings were s*****. I still practiced. But after a while even with all the barrage of hate and compliments all at once. I stopped. I no longer found joy in writing poems or drawing. I no longer was able to find inspiration. A place to put the pain and happiness that is me into a creative space. I packed all my art supplies into a box, tossed out my notebooks full of sketches and drawings. Ripped some up. Burned others. And left it be. I no longer felt the need to express myself. Not even in private journals. I feel as if I lost my sense of who I was. And theres no way of going back to revive it.
