Born of a worn and weary heart,
Dashing poems. Jotting Lines.
As if in any part,
That would make anything fine.
Pen is scratching in dismay.
Words appearing. Disappearing.
Doesn’t matter what I say.
Just feels better, someone hearing.
Snatch the paper from the floor.
Doesn’t matter. I am writing.
Words come easy, more and more.
Feels like gliding. Less like fighting.
Calm my worn and weary heart.
Writing soothes me. Makes it right.
There is beauty in the art.
A lullaby each time I write.