When youth was my friend, confidence was not.
Nor, was it my enemy.
I just never ever thought.
The confidence would catch me.
Now I'm well and truly caught.
Embroiled in frilly, dark or silly words.
Spat out like pips by passing birds.
From the seeds grow ideas.
Sometimes classical, others plain weird.
Mood affecting.
Love rejecting.
Now I'm getting older, I guess I just forgot that confidence was discovered.
Never, would I have stood upon the velvet stage.
Edged with bravado, painted stars, upstarts noisily with vibrant edges.
A plethora of strange, sometimes pretty flowers.
Often paper ones.
Now I play the strangest words.
Usually minutes.
Sometimes hours.
Showers of words.
Wordsworth not, wordsmith yes.
All flight of one aged flightless bird.
Flights of fancy, Nancy.
(c)Livvi