Not quite five years later

 So much has changed and yet I sit here still at my keyboard with the unassailable desire to scream my words into the ether. I've published a book of my poetry, and I'm considering doing a second with more than poetry in it. The voices in my head whisper, "why?"

Should I push myself to write? Will I ever be a novelist... will I forever remain a hobbyist... where can I get feedback, a voice that calls back to me, something other than an echo from the darkness.

My latest piece (Find it here):

Fleeting Moments

For a moment she

    thought of her love; her eyes smiled

    though fleeting, sincere

For a moment she

    felt desirable, worthy

    believed her beauty

 Then the feeling of

     infinite sadness returned

    her well of despair

 The sinking feeling

     her drifting to the bottom

    weeping within her

 Sometimes she thought

     she was climbing out; up

    a struggle, hang on

 A moment where she

    felt light instead of empty

    hungering for more

 Though moments pass too soon, she

Feels them like raindrops; renew