Day tips into darkness.
And I am working.
And I am happy.
Like an obsession I pour sweet elixir.
My life as liquid runs.
The well is deep.
The ink is black.
Because compassion doesn’t do shades of gray.
I drip on this screen.
Release in the words.
Little left to bleed after staring into eyes
more hopeless than I’ve ever seen.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t live my life overlooking the lines,
disconnected yet connected so deeply,
I get consumed.
Looking, seeing, existing, being
in moments when the light is switched off.
And I cannot see.
But someone else can.
Because I gave it to them.
Because that is WHO I AM.
I would choose that choice over and over again.
No matter the dark.
No matter the black.
My life runs.
Through vibrant fields of lavender.
Please help spread awareness of the heroin epidemic.
Thank you xoxo
A conduit of creativity shot straight through my heart, surged down my arm, electrified my fingers as I penned each word. I knew I was in touch with my deepest creative self, as if my muse was writing through me… encouraging me to blossom.
I kept making an effort to write day after day, struggling with my attitude and source of motivation. I continued to put off my writing goals, telling myself there’s always tomorrow, more chances to write. And then I saw her: a small, red rosebud on a miniature rose bush right outside the window in my morning room. She was striking; insistent that I take notice.
Through the cold of winter she still held on, speaking to me clearly through radiant, black cherry beauty. She must have arrived too late, missing her chance to bloom.
And she never will.
With gentle persuasion, her tiny thorns pierced my heart, urging me to persevere. That night I found myself writing with such a blissful quality; petals unfurling with ease, blossoming fully with creativity, the tiny rosebud by my side, a source of inspiration found right outside my window.
Her message? Live life to the fullest before it’s too late.
“We are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting.” Charles Bukowski
*originally published Jan. 2016