Yesterday, just weeks ago, or even next month.
It doesn’t matter the time.
Every chance I try to sit and write with You,
I Have so much on my mind.
I thought that was a good thing
For the writer in me to have so much to say,
Yet when I go to put it in ink
The words just run away.
How cruel they are to scream so loud,
“I want to be heard!”
Yet when I go to set them free,
They do not whisper a word.
Bottled up, tangled up,
Scrambled and fried inside.
Thoughts, emotions, dreams, and life
Suddenly seem to have died.
One last time I make an effort
By bringing it to You.
Abundant words or lack thereof?
You’ll know what to do.
Written by Gail Brookshire