I read it in a book it must be true:
writing words can heal brokeness’s blue,
souls fallen apart at the seams, bleeding
into the sand; forgotten how to sing.
Entrenched — safe cocoons of darkest pity
spun painstakingly, lost sight of pretty,
always digging deeper down in darkness
embracing blah and bile and bitterness.
Treason it is not to turn to light and
fight for air than wallow in despair. Grand
it will be to build a bridge or ladder
than sit, swallow pills making one sadder.
Legitimize inaction, celebrate
Illness you’ll find, soon a sealer of fate.
Easy it’s not, find the right word, then jot
it down, in order — first side rail begot.
A ladder also needs a rung or ten,
another page of writing one must pen
about the hurt, the horror, and the past;
yet, don’t linger there. Onwards! Writing fast
less shadows it will cast, about today,
the hopes, the dreams — the second side rail stay.
Climb from the bottom of the pit to light.
Easy? No. Choose hope; life — oh, it’s a fight!
Thank you for reading!
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You can find your FREE eBook, The Red Tricycle & Other Stories here. (A collection of creative nonfiction tales.)
You can also find a FREE copy of my short story, Young Maxime here. (It is the prequel to my novel, Maxime.)