I used to write poetry. I remember writing a notebook full in sixth grade, filled with rhythm and rhyme. And through my teenage and young adult years I continued to write, though I dabbled more in free verse.
Poems of faith and heartache and hope and memories.
But I don't remember the last time I have really written a poem - or at least finished a poem.
Poetry is vulnerability, and I don't want to be that naked, that exposed any more.
So instead I lie awake at night writing stanzas in my head, rearranging them instead of sleeping, yet too lazy to get up and get my pen, and forgetting the beauty of the words by the time the alarm clock interrupts my dreams.
This is not finished, I know there is more to it - more to edit and revise, but I know that if I do not take the challenge of posting on Thursdays, my words will continue to remain dormant when I am awake.
Please sell our house
and give us health
and most of all comfort.
A new car,
a new look,
a new job,
all better than before.
And I wonder
when did I start making shopping lists
instead of impassioned pleas
and most of all
When will I once again be led
instead of trying to lead?