Writers

stealing space, the only thing that disappears when new ideas are born. we are clothed in past experiences, divining directions from someone else’s shadow. We clap applause for airs that carry each of us to cause, support us in our stirrings; give us strings to act as wings, wipe memories away at the end of every day. We pray, We play, We say we are awake from all our dreams; or so it seems. gather together each of who you think you are and join to yourself an idea that will someday not exist. a stirring you cannot resist; A stick without a switch, eternal scratch without so much an itch. To write or not.