copy. write. infringment.

I find comfort in the safety of anonymity. It is the paranoia that surrounds me and keeps my thoughts safely to myself. And I wonder why there is more fear in sharing? What good do ideas do when locked inside, gathering dust and haunting the tired writer's mind.

These words that rattle and clamour against the skull like unsettled spirits. But these ghosts are mine. I am still too anxious to set them free.

I discover that writer's block comes in two forms: the absent genius and the possessive muse. The turn of phrase that gets past is not the first to be written. The best is kept for herself. Like a hen, she sits on her words waiting for brilliance to hatch.

Newborn, I will brand these letters. And the world will know they are mine.

- wit -

Fractured Shelter

My nest has fallen from its tree.

She isn't the me I know. Her ink has dried up. Words flowed from my lips soft as rain. I wrapped lyrical phrases around me like a blanket. My pen was always moving. She is a fractured shelter.

She gathers twigs to weave together, but the winds of change are blowing too hard in these stormy days. She is naked and hollow, the cold blowing right through. My pages are missing. They are leaves scattered to the wind.

We huddle inside and wait for Spring.

- wit -