Performing On Page...

I don't write rhymes, I write life...The metaphorical pen glides as quickly as I think or rethink my actions.

I bring melody.

Listing descriptions of what inspiration has grown in me.

I think loud.

But, write softly because I cherish the work that is presented in each word. Guarding it with personal ties, I cannot give it life because the ropes are tied too tight.

I survive.

Living past trials and through blessings, I keep finding myself misguided in my own guidance and listening for what is really real.

I bring awareness.

Pages on stage have no meaning until the breath is transformed into hearing. Gazing and moving are not enough. You...must...speak. Speak to what is within you and what is outside, what composes you even when you need to hide. You must speak freely not doubting your worth or skill, but know that easily, you must speak again...still.

I am motionless.

At each of the 17, I pause as told, now knowing that my eyes are on the prize once I continue to make amends with my soul.

I am new.

Each day I find it waiting, nothing is the same. We are pushed to the limits of the mundane and in order to keep it the same, WE have to change. Newness is relative, but I only know what I know and cannot speak in relative terms.

I make no sense.

Trying to provide the rhymes that don't form to sonnet visions, I leave the structure for another day. Writing life is like living it. There is no pattern, no blueprint, sometimes 'no sense' because as we know it sense ain't so common in these days of broke-ness.

I am done.
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