blank slate

Writer's block has me in its grips and I cant help but remember the old and darkened days, when words like water used to flow. Its hard to not blame wellness for a lack of poetry in my life. I'm still learning to see beauty in color.
In the beginning I felt so constrained by soberiety, I was so sure that my muse lived in the darkness, and that it was only in the deepest shadows that my soul could speak freely.
In time it has been true for me that the bottle took more from me than anything else ever could. In the final analysis it was clear that I got fucked up to hide from my true self, and that in addiction I lost more of myself than I even knew was possible.
These are of course only my truths.
I am here to say that today I need not lose any of myself to this clarity of mind. I do not have to yield to the darkness to hold onto my art. If the muse lives inside you, she will always be there. Perhaps in the light of sobriety I may have to coax her from the shadows, but she'll always be there.
Poetry is everywhere, and all around me, not in the big picture, but in the moments, and in the days. Poetry lives in the little things. It lives inside me and I see it through my mirrors view.
A wise man once told me that nothing in this life is free, and that which seems to come so easily today, shall reap its cost in later ways. Art that comes easily is bought on credit, to be paid for later with interest. Tempting though that may be, it may be better to take the cost now, with the benefits, and pay the price as it acrues, such that you may begin each day with a blank slate.