AS SHE GREW OLDER, her time

was no longer hers.

rather,

it was time

devoted unwillingly,

painstakingly,

unhappily,

to all the things deemed apparent necessities.

the more that the clock

tick-tocked the day away,

the more that her pencil stopped.

the more that the days

progressed, from dawn to dusk,

the more that she strayed.

the more that the girl

distanced herself from writing,

the more that she worried.

but her worries

were still small ailments;

evanescent infections,

passing plagues.

so simply

cured.

cured by those times that she did

write.

those times that she did

read.

those times that she did

something,

anything,

to tie her back

to what she loved.

writing was no longer a hobby

but a habit.

writing was a recline

after an uphill climb

of days passed and days yet to come.

she still worried,

yes.

but she

was

happy.