I've been going to bed early. Waking up at 5am. Reading, drinking water, pondering, meditating on life over coffee with myself. Sitting on the back deck to indulge in my life's wake. Seeing the Moon to say goodbye before she greets another. Greeting the Sun. Fire's grasp on surrounding forests give me grey skies. I hear the water planes fly by just as I am inhaling a different kind of smoke into my lungs, I hold my breath, reach for the pencil, and write.

Here is what I wrote over the course of two mornings.
I've actually picked up a pencil and a blank page and remembered what my passion was.
I have neglected blank pages in fear of making mistakes.
To be a pen, truly, I believe one must master the language of the pen in pencil, so as not to "jump the gun".  

On another note: I want to apologize for not responding to each comment. I used to be more avid, yet it seems that I have lost the ability to share as freely as I used to. I've become a hermit to my path and have begun to be led astray, simply because my sufferings are something I have been making a priority to suppress. This site does wonders for my writing and my confidence in it. Which can also lead to a deep fear of writing something my readers won't enjoy. While on a walk I considered the facts and gave myself a once over and realized, for lack of a better phrase, "Who the **** cares?" and, "I shouldn't."

Which is true, no one should.
We're all here for the same reason: Poetry.
What's not to like?
We all have our own unique styles, and they change.
We all learn from each other here. For better or for worse.

Thank you all for your time. For those who read simply the poem, or just this... or both.

Write on.