Old younger self.

I have not been writing.
I am not too sure why,
And I worry.
As I read myself,
I wonder.
 
Sure,
I wrote less eloquently.
I don’t even understand some of the things I wrote.
The truth is,
I have become a heck of better writer.
 
However,
For what world?
 
When I read my past self,
I sense that one-of-a-kind soul.
That kid, 
Without too much fear of tomorrow.
Without too much care about fitting-in.
 
I began to ask myself,
What happened to me?
 
Why did I sell my soul?
To a world where—
People write the same way,
Speak the same way,
Dress the same way.
 
Did I lose myself,
Desperate to fit into someone else’s “perfect.”
 
That I had killed myself?