I write and through these

dreams, made always to make up

new ways, old weights hold on

To say again, in whispered pen

pressed against,
days of pages

as I, have,

to cry out the  

old things unbroken

strings still strung so tightly

unused sigh

loss, is salt upon inner most

these words echo the broken

closure, no closer to repair

All of the things that can hurt

As they have and I endure

as I must alone

I use words

To tell a world

out of reach

how it is for me

that I may comprehend

and pretend they reach you

in this accepting

my truth of loves cost

exercise my restless wants

and longings

my chosen words

to see or feel

Or love and want

what cannot be

because I need to

when I write for Me

and not just, about You