Live By the Pen

October 6, 2011
She limps down the sidewalk
wounded by her own ambition
Her own criticism
Impaired by her need to be the best
She presses a curled index finger
to her lips
In a silent prayer
Whispering hymns
to an estranged heavenly father
It's all she can do
It's out of her hands
Reaching and clawing toward a dream
that seems within reach
But is yet to be attained;
She stops suddenly
looks back momentarily
Back at the gray sidewalk beneath her
Back at the gray atmosphere
And she breathes the fog from her lungs
the mist from her head
There is no giving up
She sets her jaw
squares her shoulders
and looks ahead
to what's real
There is no surrender
The ink pulsates through her like blood
Just as vital
She must write
Even if she has to walk
these desolate sidewalks again
She will write
until her ears ring

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