The Writer

I’ve spent 27 years collecting

Little notes,

And held them tightly to my chest.

Proud of who I was and

The new I always become.

Even as I lay on the ground

Where the debris of stones I stacked

To rebuild again a home,

Crushed me into the earth

That broke again like the

First time I ruffled its soil.

The smile I had then as the sun warmed

My vibrant cheeks,

Now a gaping mouth choking on tears.

I cannot move to find the paper

Written all through time.

The sacred parchments of my heart,

I left to waste and blow away from this

Repeated crash of fate,

Not able to face their glowing light

That turned to failure after time.

My heart aches and I have empty hands.

Totems everywhere, I fear to reach

That I may rip open the cage

In which protects my heart,

As boulders lie atop me.

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