She wants to write, needs to write
every vein waits to spill
out the stories that are there
onto the white page to make pretty.
She's a writer, not by choice though
it’s in there and this is the way
she gets it out; from gut to hand to pen
or fingers paused over the keyboard.
Writing gives her purpose
gives her the hope she keeps learning about
a wholeness nothing else brings.
Where do the words come from?
She's never sure. What she wants to write
doesn't always come, what she's never
thought of comes ribboning onto
the lines, never straight forward
never in order, but they come
on good days. She is their servant
girl,pen in hand waiting for
the next word, hoping it is
something she can give meaning to
something she can decipher,something
needed and Lord knows, publishable please.