Old Friend

I look upon a blank page,

but not in the same way as before.

Once an invitation, a key;

but I can’t find the door.

What has changed, I wondered,

as I forced my hand to fill the space.

And my head filled with poems,

just old times it retraced.

But then it started to let go

and roam a little more wild and free.

And suddenly new words arrived,

like treasures pulled up from the sea.

The point was never lost,

because it was never there to be found.

But oh how my heart rejoiced

at that familiar and comforting sound –

of the moment at hand,

unmarked by purpose or intent.

My flow open and free,

and the control finally spent.

How long has it been

since last I let art take the wheel,

and wrote not really for words

but for the moment of truth that I feel.

I missed my old friend,

I thought as the language followed –

just formed, not rehearsed,

like so many truths that I swallowed.

It’s been a long time

since I’ve opened like this.

It’s something I needed,

and didn’t know that I missed.

©️2026 Cristen Writes