These are the wages
for which we strive
until we’re old
and heaven sent.

Words which once were pent
up in the core, not to be told
could not be contained inside
and burst from their dreary cages.

The intervening years have taken tales from all our ages
and twisted the history and the lessons they confide
so much we no longer recognize the stories shared and truths they hold
and perhaps we have lost touch with what the very words meant.

The price is paid,
the cost is to pay again.

half full
half grown
feeling way too old for this shit
growing pains and grey hairs
does it ever get any easier?

then paused . . .

monochromatic me?
straight sided and plastic . . .
what do I know of it?
half full of ink
a bic with a fine roller tip
yet here it is nonetheless
a pen with the word in it’s head
faultless in ability
yet better unwritten
straight, fine, half full
‘nough said.

thoughts floated like threads,
words were woven
into a tapestry of story.

and passed through the mind
through the heart
through the hand
and into the pen

flowing onto the paper
words of hate and love
phrases of sorrow and joy
of everything
of nothing
of life