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.


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