Good intentions drip from my fingers
in honeyed words that mean
nothing but what they first
appear to mean.
...
I remember our first conversation,
when, I read you as if you had already revealed your soul to me.
I remember the drive to your house,
...
When I found your picture
I giggled,
half embarrassed
I had looked you up.
...
Petals folding in dry wind,
wondering, will it ever rain again?
But I will make you new.
...
I will bear the testimony of you,
a light in the face of an eclipse.
I will give attestation,
...
You asked me the other day if I saw in pink.
I wasn’t so much surprised by the question
(because I knew neon was how you saw the world)
as I was caught off-guard by it;
...
We grabbed our weapons of choice,
aimed them at the weakest points,
determined to destroy defenses
and undermine any remaining strengths.
...
I live in Middlesex County in Connecticut with my daughter and my husband. I have a BA in English Literature, but would love to, eventually, go further. Writing has, and always will be, my passion.)
To Be Average
Good intentions drip from my fingers
in honeyed words that mean
nothing but what they first
appear to mean.
There are no hidden layers
as I sink into the mediocre.
I fill myself with the words of others
and feel not my own.
My words sit empty and unused,
like the ink in my pen.
Others will pass me by
and I shall stand motionless,
devoid of anything but potentiality.