Battlefield

I stand at the edge in despair. Dejected. Confused. Alone. A sullen spectator to the fading magnificence of my literary world. Ravaged and ruined by the conflict of rules contained within simple words of caution. A lone witness to the power in the invisible placement of intentional boundaries.

I move. I shift. I aimlessly drift. Wide-eyed and helpless, I circle the perimeter. Careful not to disturb the susceptible surface of this unforgiving ground. I know the explosive consequence of misstep. I want. I feel. I am bursting. But I have no syllabary with which to translate my anxiety.

I see them out there. In the field.

My words.

The soldiers of my thoughts. Deliverer of my emotions. Protectors of my heart. Of my soul. Dueling and jousting. Bleeding and crawling. Fighting their way through the stifling oppression of the unimagined mind. Racing to reach Me. Fierce in their determination to Be. Certain of their right to exist. Within. Me.

And they are correct.

The violent passion. The desperate brokenness. The blinding love. The debilitating hurt. The exultant joy. The immaculate, beautiful messiness. This is the stuff that fuels my muse. The responsive sensations that inspire me to write. And to write well I need their wild abandon to corse through my blood and stir the sensitive tremor in my hand.

I see them out there. In the field.

My words.

And they are correct.

I need them. Unequivocably.

And all the frenzied intensity that inspires them into life.

Writer. Artist. Lover.

I thrive in the emotional spaces. Between.

There is no other way.

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Lonely Roads #2

On the bus again.

Solitude beckons.

Heartache shared.

I’ve screamed. I’ve cried. I’ve left.

I’ve hurt. I’ve breathed. I’ve let go.

So many regrets

Live inside the place

Where Hope should have thrived.

I am human.

I’ve made mistakes.

This bus ride

Is not one of them.

For weeks I’ve listened and watched

The Canada geese fly south.

Migration.

Homeward bound.

Eminent.

Wings spread in formation

Sure of their path

And their place

In the grand scheme of Life.

The first and the last

Equally important

For the survival of all.

Bound by nature.

By familial bonds.

By something

That has no word in English.

But as much apart of them

As their regal crowns.

As I boarded the bus

I found a feather.

Tucked it in my pocket

And wished to belong to something

That has no word in English.