I stand here in the rain
watching you run so you
don’t get your hair wet.

Such a difference
between us.

All the time-
making it seem like
there is no reason for
what I do.

But I love it.
All the droplets falling down.

It makes me believe I will wash away-
if I just stand here long enough.

Why I don’t Write

Do I write for fun?
Or when the power of words hit me?
Do I write to process, to understand
The beauty of things that surround?

Would I write if energy was freely given,
Flowing to me in a continuous
And purifying rain of words?

If the bones in my hand didn’t ache
As I typed
And my heavy head wasn’t throbbing
From buried pain?

If my day wasn’t congested with
Chores and human frailties
Could I produce
A brilliant new world?

Or would I still sit here, wilting
Creativity dripping down the
Sides of my face
Not knowing how to come back from all this madness?

Photo Credit: Wouter de Bruijn via Compfight cc


To be continually confined,
Scratching at the high walls of my
Cell until my fingers
Bleed, with no one listening to my
Whimpers except the moon.

She’s the only one who never
Gave up – on me –
Continued to shine on –
Despite all I’ve done

I keep desperate hold on that thought
As I lay down each night to sleep –
Holding my blanket of moonbeams
As I dream of all that
Could have been.

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