I have not the slightest idea
What to write
My fingers ache
For the outstretched movement of muscle,
To bring symbols to life,
With a scratch of graphite,
The flow of ink,
In key presses,
Or a screen swipe by impatient digits;
This mind is a cipher
of possible letter,
word combinations,
Awaiting the right alignment,
A key
To Communicate
Feeling and thought,
Forged in the furthest recesses
Of this artistically wired mind,
Bringing forth symbols,
Strung into messages,
All in an effort
to unlock,
and light up thine.


Words are my art
And my ministry;
I write, I speak,
I evoke, I exhale
Into the ether;
What comes next
of the symbols and breath I share
I cannot contain,
It is with benevolent intention I infuse
These words
That I trust
Will come to settle
Where they are most needed,
With Spirit,
As the guide.

Write On

I have run to you,
I have run from you,
In fear of self,
In fear of the unknown,
I have deleted my poems,
And such,
Fearing the power of others hands they might touch,
But who am I?
Whose feelings could be wanted?
So needed to be manipulated?
I am no one.

And therein lies the rub,
If I am no one,
I am nothing,
But I am something,
I am someone,
I cannot be no one,
And thus,
I am important,
I am unique,
I am valuable…

And if so I have much to protect,
I can either refuse to live, to preserve ever being harmed,
Or I can revolt against fear and oppression,
Determined to preserve my existence and living,
And thus,
I wage my own internal battle against uncertainly,
And pledge to live;

And so I write on.