Truths

Truth always has this little habit of whispering back to me from the grave I put it in. Truth is, of all the things I could have been, I am still unsure the one that I am destined for.

The poet, the painter, the sculptured, the philosopher, the lover, the crier, the wounded, the healer, the loner, the forgiver, the runner, the yogist, the singer, the dancer, the ranter, the optimistic, the pessimist, the holy veil and the undertaker, the thinker, the creator, the eccentric, writing allows me to be all these things without ever having to leave the comfort zone of my keyboard. 

Fiction becomes non - fiction, non - fiction becomes, well, my genre of real life, and poems become the underlayer of my platform , as I carve out my next life. Cats have nine lives, but I, I am very self assured that I have even more than that!

I could not have a more different view of life today,than the one I started with years ago. I never realized early on how much I stifled my own ambition, how much I had withdrawn from my own courage, until  I began to write. Emotional holes are hard to fill. A piece here, a thread there, every piece in my colorful collage is an ensemble of the

bigger story of my life.