Some days I force myself to write
after days and days
of not writing.

Something.
Anything.
Stringing words together,
reassuring myself that it’s still here,
this drive to put voice
to the feelings and thoughts
that swirl around and around in my head.

Time passes.
Time without writing.
Time without speaking.
Frozen time, 
standing at the edge
of something versus nothing
until one day I wake up
and realize
I've been gone.
I’ve given in to the void again,
the void of wandering around in my head
without giving the words 
an exit from my brain
and an entrance to the page.

So I relax my shoulders,
sit up straight,
and tell myself
to just do it,
just write it,
just take the action,
even though I feel like an imposter
holding a pen
with nothing of note to say.

And as I do,
the voice quiets,
the one that says it’s too late,
I missed my shot.

What does that voice know anyway?

It’s never too late
to try again.