a writer’s dream is to write;
to write at all cost.
and when she can’t find time to write
it’s like the world has stopped; and all those dull moments.
why can’t the muse stay?
the hurts and laughter in a bowl
ready to spill, or etch a mark, thumbprint!
when the heart starts loving again
or soaks saddened. and bruised,
the writer grows her wings and rides in a cloud of white.
hatred has no space for her
it is conscience over matter
it is sweet silence
it is daring madness
it is love
it is a moment of truth
it is life.
it is part of her daily offers
a part of her, undressed
a part of her, weakened
courage in the pages of Gods creation.