our lives are balanced on if
  our recorded time is only
a tool, a feathery pen we
must  grow, mayhaps, then we can, we could
scrawl and scratch and scribe and write
to give our hearts freedom to just
fly and soar, for a moment in grace by
the simple act of laying
aside our
fearful and muddied fingerprints
we move forth, we move on
gifting to our otherselves the
liberty, of a  pristine, white, page
to do with, what we will, this
is what the insecure self, the afeared,  would
most like to  avoid
the nothingness that comes after  hurt
the numb, null, nothingness we
do not desire, but, none the less,  incur
as we delve in
to the heart, of  ouselves questing
wanting, needing, hoping for
a tiny, ephemeral spark of  originality
some thing, to state, emphatically regardless
of creed, of colour, of birth we are  of
one breed, one clique, one clan, one tribe the
voice of truth, so unaware, of inherent *costs