When did the pressure of perfection

take precedence over putting 

pen to paper 

for the sake of

weaving words together 

to wrap around a moment

preserve it and cloak it in

the curves and sweeps 

and hurried strokes it

takes to get it out

before it’s gone?

The words have been

inside us all along

but we fight the currents,

running out of energy and time 

when

instead,

if we just leaned back,

leaned in,

slowed 

down,

we’d float instead of drown, we’d

breathe easy, we’d 

write freely 

without a second glance back at the shore,

without a second thought of needing more.