teetering on the edge of hope, hoping she'll fall in the right direction.

will her heart rally? i hope so.

What does my heart matter? Tell me.

that's genuine fear that has filled my eyes
the kind for which one cannot simply apologize
that which in my heart had begun to rise
 -seems to have fallen flat.

a future, lit bright with promise and joy
and hope, excitement like over a new toy
 -has evaporated.

where has it gone?
is it for good?
what does this mean?
for us? for Good?

does love have anything left to give?
any last rally? any fight?
a reason, a reason to let it live?
any call to leave love alight?

fight back. fight, love. fight for this.
fight for future, for present, for chances otherwise missed.
fight, heart. dont lay down and die.
fight. fight. fight hard. fight. this is my cry.

fight.
I, fight.

i wrote you a letter that you'll probably never read.
i sang you a song that you'll probably never hear.
i kissed you. did you notice?
do you notice?

i dont think i ask for too much. just enough. just enough.

i'd like to be magnanimous
to give and forgive
i'd buy you the whole world
if you wanted-

she was afraid, she guessed, of those around her. and who was she, really? to lay her soul bare and clear, on offer in quiet almost hope. more attractive, easier, to riddle and rhyme and mumble and smile and escape accountability. perhaps there are two types. of artists. those discovering and those presenting. most definitely she was the former over the latter.

-

holding steady
going steady
really ready?
quiet medley
hearts are deadly
deep and steadly
no hope. stop.

could in agonising patience she wait
when faith dictates forever
with chipped purple nails
and the roar of outside, outside
where to escape
                         she'll wait.

eyes clarion of blue, green
perhaps grey, framed by old smiles
strength and integrity and truth
soft, beat softly, my heart

amongst breath, you'll find me
twisted quiet and shyly waiting
breathless admission, fragile silence
hold, please protect my heart

honest embrace with steeled arm
gentle, trusted, safe
ignore all stuff and nonsense-
content, content, my heart.

Time, I guess, to write again.

But herein lies the issue: how?
And not how as in, how do I type or how do I wield a pen or even how do I call myself to arms as a writer. But how as in.. what form will my exploration take today?

Said.
I am not afraid to create. Nor do I fear never being heard. I fear looking at my writing and
being disappointed.

Perhaps to grow as "someone that likes to call themselves someone that writes" I need to focus. To write a purpose.



Purpose:

This is my call to writing. There's something that needs to be said.

It's something I can't escape.
Every other breath, I hear something that glints in the light and sparks for my attention. A lyric clearly confused for clarity. Morphemes moved for motivation and challenge. Something someone says that is just a little catching. Breathtaking. Cute.

My greatest hesitation is that I will try too hard. That I'll end up one of those writers; you know those that deliberately frame contrast, that are obviously seeking to confuse and imagine and say something that has never before been said. I mean, that's nice. But too much of life is about trying too hard and it's not something I agree with wholeheartedly nor with all of my heart. It is, for me, to seek to say simply. Invocation and inception and lilt. To not

be obvious.

I'll take a deep breath.



You know what I'd like to capture? That moment; the one in the sunlight. The one at the end of your sigh, when you open your eyes and really look for a second. With the grass, the smell of fresh ground coffee, the six strings resonating softly in a chord of accord. Of content. Of Promise.
It's not necessarily happy, that moment. It's both quiet and cacophonic; a little bright and yet heavy with earthquakes and thunder. And it's rare, we see, but always sort of there. Underneath. Underneath it all.

That's the moment I'd like to capture. All of them. Freeze-framed, lit with still harmony and lifted melody and sand and breeze and the slight smell of sunscreen.

her mind as busy as the street from whence she walked
an easy afternoon whiled in sunlight and wishes
fresh, fair and bright and hopeful
youth sweet, love soft and new

her quiet heart, gently beating
her precious hand to hold
dormant dreams, desires forsaken
reawakened
rife with reason

the question; assumed unanswered-
alight my heart
come, soothe my soul.