I walk in monologue 
    through Berkeley's Hills
Feet pressing into sidewalk firmly
I eat the pensive mood 
    solitude brings
And bite into the juiciness of
    self-reflection
I write, first time in years,
    free verse impromptu
Taking few dozen steps
    between each pair of lines
I yearn, on tip-toes
    stretching high, to be expressive
A mode of being longtime
    self-denied
I'm walking home - from job
    I'll soon be leaving
To find myself believing once 
    again
That which I do defines 
    me not and feeling
That which I am is
    good. enough. a lot.