Monday, April 9, 2012


I am a writer.

It's not something I do for a living. I do it to live. No dollars or cents earned, but when I set pen to paper I achieve the same high as if my bank account filled with millions. It is my comfort in good times and bad, to paraphrase a vow.

It brings grief, changes moods, lifts my spirits.

It defines me.

There was a time when I'd not mention my passion to any living soul. This was my secret, but once I opened the doors, all sorts of tidings flocked to me, reinforcing my self-esteem, and then rob me of any shred of confidence.

It sustains me, brings me to tears, allows a place to hide.

And when I believed there was money in them there words, I found fool's gold in the leprechaun's bucket.

I enjoy an on-again, off-again relationship with the words, have taken up to six months away from my work-in-progress. Yet when I return, the magic greets me like welcoming back the lost warrior.

This is my writing life. My life.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Truth of Hearts

I don't want to be alone.

I want to share reflective love.
Feel his heartbeat
beneath my palm.

Knowing it's for me.

his happiness, stress,
All the smoothness and

The person
he couldn't love more,
or less.

Lucky to have found me.

I want.
I need.

Share the mutual
without the tangible
bells and whistles.

For the beauty of all that's