Staring at me like a caged, wounded animal,
is a plain white sheet of paper.
This could go absolutely anywhere - I get to decide.
I’m the guard of that cage.
For better or worse, I am the only one who has the key.
I could start the process of healing, but
what about all the wounds I already carry?
Do there have to be more?
Every day the fresh empty page beckons me to act.
As if standing on some cliff's edge,
It terrifies me, it seduces me. . .
to tell a different story.
More accurately,
to write a different story,
until one day, I can’t.
Sometimes we (I) have the mistakes down, it's that different story that's scary, for sure. Thanks Mark!
I really like this one