Girl In A Rocking Chair.

Girl In A Rocking Chair
Curled up tight as a bud,
asleep for the awakening
with dreams of coming to life,
the flickering porch bulb is a siren’s song
into the flame, instead of away.
Its dull glow throws tired circles against
the stone steps, halfway up
and halfway down the climb.
It’s a lovely place to pretend to rest
after tentative promises
life can’t keep
until it does.
I love writing poems, or, what an old (and now deceased) friend dubbed my poEms, because they’re a free-er form of writing for me. Partly it’s because they’re not something competitive, like fiction writing definitely must be, in today’s market.
These little word puzzles of light, as I called them today, make my writing self happy.
Is your writing self happy? My Auntie Em advice for you today is, write what makes you happy.
At the least, write something. It doesn’t have to be great, or even good.
But it’ll be something.
And if you do it often enough, it just may be good.
It just may be great.
Or it just may be for you, and you alone.
As long as the writing makes you happy.
That’s how you know.
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