My fiction. I want to race away and
keep you all to myself. The stories I’ve told and want to tell.
My fear. These shadows and spaces
and stars and silences all bottled up and tied to my belt and bouncing around
with every step I take.
My fantasy. The sweetest scenario
and the time and the space to just stay in the city day and night and morning
and noontime.
My failure. What I want the most
when I want it without worry or wonder.
My fun. All I imagine and can sum
up and try to state and try to figure out and keep trying and always be
surprised and always find more story to tell.
My fate. An echo of an echo and a
reflection in a mirror all circling all holding me still.
My friend. The story I write every
day working with words so fragile and free and with pieces of parts so familiar
and so known.
My freeform. The verses and the
lyrics and the choruses and the words I scoop up and hold in my two hands like
the precious newborn they are.
My fondness. Relaxed, fitted, not
fully formed but accepting, understanding, hoping, dreaming through the night
‘till tomorrow, ‘till the words keep flowing, keep finding their way, keep
rising and falling, keep coming, and then stay a while.
Labels: fears, on writing, Ramblings
