Writing

These pages can be turned
And turned again, until
A crisp lined white appears;
Staring challengingly at you.

Such a part of you is this;
The marriage of heart and pen
That you no longer feel vulnerable
When your ink shapes words around lines.

Rhyme and stanza seem obsolete,
The verse created is yours;
Purely and unquestionably a part
Of your otherwise silent true self.

These poetries created are children,
Each relying on your approval,
Scared of facing rejection
From the nurturer who feeds them.

If I share these words with you,
Would you understand how it breaks
The trusting bond built
Apon sharing secrets with this book?

To these pages I can be honest
If I do wrong, a new page is offered:
No questions asked,
A forgiving and forgetting autonomy.

So if I'm sharing this with you,
I am at my utmost vulnerable,
More naked than you'll ever see me,
More in love than i thought i could be...

Overgrowth.

This garden,
of little truths, whispered alone,
cutting through jungle in the form of honest expression.
It can't be helped,
She tries.
This garden; escapism.
Lose me, please.

Kristy Smith, 2006.

She didn't know what to write, and so this is what followed;

"Stars and Spiders are not the same."

Insightful, Miss Smith. Thank you.