So here we are at the crossing of roads,
and what lies ahead, I may never know.
If I take the plunge and close my eyes
and turn my head as I start to cry.
Please understand that this is all of me,
it's written out for all to see.
And then comes the thought inside my head,
that I must lie where I make my bed.
I tore down the walls piece by piece,
documenting everything without skipping a beat.
Without missing a moment that changed my life.
My writing is the husband and I, the wife.
My words are like children...that I have raised,
throughout the years, throughout the days.
It was there for me like a caring mother,
showing me the ways in which to love her.
Taking out a pen and dancing around,
creating music without making a sound.
Creating art from the written word,
and now I'm asking that it be heard.
I've giving back the gift that I received,
by quietly letting go of all I need.
Turning in my pen for a desk out there,
where they come and judge and stop to stare.
And somehow you become this other self,
who's giving advise while accepting help.
You become known as the author of that book.
But even you have to take a second look.
For has the time come that I moved ahead?
Stepped into life and get out of bed.
For all along you mistook the very meaning,
I was referring to my day dreaming.
When my head is healed up by my tiny hand,
and I'm staring at a page hoping to take a stand.
Hoping to fill it with all my words,
hoping they'll listen to all they've heard.
I want so badly to be know as the fighter.
The girl who fought to become a writer.
The woman who struggled with the idea of self,
is now taking advise while giving help.
And she's writing a book for all to read,
while tending to her planed seed.
So here we are at the roads that crossed,
with everything given and nothing lost.