Writing hides inside of me, in my innermost thoughts and ideas. Many times it is never found, or never searched for.

Writing hides in my sister's eyes. There is so much there, but fear keeps it hidden, even from me. Especially from me.

Writing hides in the unsaid things between two friends who have more in common than either would like to admit.

Writing hides in the beauty we take for granted and forget to appreciate day after day.

Writing hides itself well in the space between God and man, and the distress it causes them both.

Writing hides in regret and the deep longing for simpler times it arouses.

Oh! a cry so plain it
Scarcely leaves our lips.
We begin plotting lines
To sad refrain. Excise
All rights to light and life,
Still,
Quietly laying bare our
Failed plans, our lost paths;
Our mortal enemy, our
Only friend. She who
Dances outside the realm
Of our gaze, who plays
Silent melodies on broken
Keys, songs we know but are
Disallowed to sing.
She cares not
For lament or plea, she
Who fuels our fire;
She, misery.