Defined

As I sit in the evening thinking of my Day and how messy my life can be, I will let go of most of my harsh disturbances! I have allowed my creativity to be expressed with an external love and a wide net cast on my world, I embrace it all! Now as I work in such a small amount of time; I see how I have cast my web which expresses my art! Abstractions in my poetry are found as I express work. I know what is seen or read or heard depends on the eyes of those who look! There are many meanings to even one sentence, one brush stroke.  Clarity finds words spread in circles stretching across the canvas of my life. I am the artist and a poet as I open to be seen by the eyes of those who read and see my work.  I release without expectations only hope! I do love the whimsy of my life and work with wishes for life! Yet now I shall be defined as I consider my writing and fully committing to be a writer! I will!

The Master

His words spoke to my deep spirit

I had hoped there was another path

Deep within the game of another and another

He attracted woman after woman

 All with needs that were not being filled

His charm slide deep into a need

A master of female connection

A master of all

I became another needy woman

restricting myself 

 I wouldn’t linger long with my well of needs

My lips would taste a moment

Beyond full expression and release

Another moment lost in a long lingering search

For the father I never had

I began to see it was alright to have needs

Editorial Abandonment

·        Words need not be prompted to send me forward into my assignment from where I attach myself. Every word I have written has found expression without drill or duty for finding open forums, filling pages. I am here in my dreams of possibility. Never having had to be given scheme’s without being constructed in free form. With spirits direct wishes for more possibilities. Would I be more accomplished if I didn’t ramble out stories without the direction of a mentor; taking me by my hand and saying do this. I resist the temptation to move into a dream. Wondering if my direction will find its way? Anatomy limits so much writing that has been written before. Stories and scripts. Sensualities of just living in all of what has found me in my world of memoir.

Am I able to now take the assignment I have given myself not to be resistant to executing in writing the life I have had so far. Will I honor the universe that has paper and pen in an antiqued, textural rhythm that connects me to speak of myself or whomever might read glimpsing at my un-assigned notes and thoughts. A design giving myself radical self-acceptance and love without judgement. This assignment finds in tonight's form forgiveness of what I found in yesterday's editorial. Ahead a continuation of my muse. Here I am writing with only a nod from a gesture I call my own trusting a smile from my teacher. Thoughts find an open part of a freedom to continue unfettered with abandonments, the topic becomes nothing more than a flotation device for my dream. Nativity marching forward, forming without an assignment into a world for amusement not saying much: “I have no writing assignment.” I am writing for myself.

Clouds

The colors of clouds on a sunny day surrounded me.

They float before me to wrap me in words.

I’m floating across the sky with white and tender forms.

While colorless tile and tub support my glide.

My bruises and pains are washed away.

Talking softly I am held up by memory

Does remembrance offer purity and security with Help?

 While fires burn around me?

Is it White that tattoos themselves with each touch at waters rim?

Is it white waters that carries me with these love letters?”

                             Help me live and love and make myself pure.

I will cleanse away the day in the warm water of you.

Editorials

You were Bill the last time I saw you, or I thought so! I was Donna, now I am Dona with one "N". It has been a lot of years. I have recreated the women I am over and over, searching. I am once again recreating myself. Usually I come to the computer at night, too tired for a life with too many assessments and memories. Of course depending on who is stimulating my thoughts, I begin to write. I am keeping my commitment for myself. I can't say I want to exercise my ability to write well at this time of night. I'm not sure what I can even say except for some far off memory, logged in a distant file. I just spit out whatever I want. Such control; I am can be careless with my words when writing, unless otherwise being pointed into refinement. I am fond of writing poems when stimulated, as my words form a poetic blaze. I love those opportunities. Poetic words only have to have form for me. A purely selfish act sending words into the universe. I do wonder if there is anything other than words, here? Your words: "You make many mistakes in your writing. If you pay more attention, you'd see them and correct them. Or, get a copy editor”, In William’s terms "Respect your Language." Do I have to pay so much attention?

Oh I don't want to be conscious and assessed. I have a husband for that and he is often my copy editor. I will always seem to need one. I do know I need freedom. I respect words and the imagined they create at this point. Perhaps that is what paralyzes me when writing...an assessment factor of a perfectionist. So what else do you have to teach me William of a Memory! A memory of so much unfettered action and emotion. Perhaps freedom was not at the beginning in our youth. I wish I could have let you take my virginity. It was lost in Spanish Harlem and he thought I was lying when I told him. I just wanted to have extra care for my first time in my mystery and fear. He didn’t get care, too many ugly moments and it became another. That part was the truth when I told Franco. I didn’t get care as he pushed me only to discover I had been honest. I leaned against the sink and the evidence was complete. I wish you were my first William, not only my first thrill. Now you have become an editor of who I have been and who I want to become.

Existential Moments

As I sit in the evening thinking of my Day thinking how messy my life can be. I will let go of most of my harsh disturbances! I have allowed my creativity to be expressed with an external love and a wide net cast on the world to embrace it all! Now as I work in such a small amount of time; I see how I have radiated Many expressions of my arts over time! Abstractions in my poetry are found as I express work in reaching my reader at a common ground. I know what is seen or read or is heard depends on the eyes of those who look! There are many meanings to even one sentence, one brush stroke, one life. My life? Clarity finds words spread in circles stretching across the canvas of my life. I am the artist and as I open to be read by the eyes of who becomes my reader I release without expectations, only hope! I do love the whimsy of my life and work and my struggle! Yet now I shall be defined! I am driven to believe this in my existential moments. Even as I write there is a pressure of a visceral response in my eyes.

I do want to cry for the whimsy and fear I have put before my own life.

Stopping

Intoxicated by word and thought, someone else's words on a silken draft. If they were mine I would wrap them in the cocoon of you. Intoxications as words are drugs for me, with images becoming part of a life I don’t understand. Capabilities slip into my needs. Wondering and knowing at the same time where this intemperance goes, is slips into torrid verbal rambles. One movement away could cause me to choke on the power of the silken page. Once again I am feeling my hand run across your face, embossed, while writing my story of a true, tender moment, beginning to surrender to verbal jousting. This is what I do when I write!

The hardest thing I have ever done is stop; stop here.

Sweet Edward

Who knows when a poem exists? 

When it falls into our lap with touches 

Sweet Edward stretching and opening his pizza box 

Arms over his head

I enter asking: Are you tired?

Just needed a stretch. 

I’m not tired at all.

This young body just needed to move.

We talked...I talked.

He told me he was out of state.

Where?...Wyoming.

His fathers illness brought him home.

Death happens, he whispered.

Not much of a note.

I felt my own grief.

Wondering as I thought about fixing him;

How could I fix myself. 

We hugged that was fixing enough

A frozen space warmed by love

Also a slice of pizza. 

Where are you now Sweet Edward

A story will come!

And I wanted to be a Doctor!

Tonight will be the first time I am not just editing a piece or taking a writers notebook and transcribing an old piece. This is because of just another test ordered with no one to help me navigate. No one told me ahead of time I was to have it. I am not in any critical place. Where a Doctor has to dive in and do what you have to do to keep me alive.  It seems I have to consider the field of Medicine in a new layer of who I am and how I meet life on life's terms and to see my personal lessons. Having personal dialogue that meets my standard, yet has to know what is happening to me and why.

When I was a child a Doctor came  to the house and saw what was happening to the sick children. My Mother didn’t have a car to transport me anywhere, also I would be surprised if she had Health insurance. Standards of Medicine were so different. Given that my father had died I might have craved the male attention, however I did have a serious illness at the age of seven. Medicine is not what it used to be at all. At one time I was busy figuring out how to handle my day to day health as I aged. Maybe I wanted to not be trapped in such an impersonal system as I saw it evolving... How now because I have chosen to find a new Heart Doctor can I come to terms with walking down our drive thinking this is breaking my heart. I have to come to terms with this. I am all about personal and how to manage here and when change is right for me, it feels like extra testing psychologically is ripping my skin off. It is always about my thinking. How could they not remember to tell me what they need and why or what they did without my remembering to ask.  

I know that I get giant crushes when a man shows me an ounce of care, I also am a wordsmith and remember the links in how their statements come together and don't always make sense to me. I feel it deeply within my heart as how to process, yet articulating my need is usually disjointed.  

I now am coming to terms with my health care regardless of what the Doctor thinks. I seem to be in the learning curve between the old school Doctor who came to my home as a Doctor and a messaging system that is completely impersonal and I become just one of many patients. How to I keep it simple when I feel so much. I am again a graph to be measured in the scope of their knowledge and my care has slipped and how do I manage being a sensitive person, when I feel like a pound of flesh is a very skillful Art form. Something like a Potter who learns a complicated formula for their glazes and color formation.

Doctors don’t become Doctors because they are uncaring people but I feel the system of healthcare as a business is driving their care to have just another Test to tell them how to keep a patient alive or how to keep a patient with their many human untrained feelings at bay from blaming where there should be no blame.

This is so very complicated and watching how I need to become impersonal and trust I will manage and hold myself up. I will not let medicine break my heart.

Marilyn Monroe

My course is a happenstance of fate. Ever just letting life unfold. While I was born and raised in Rochester, N.Y.  I only lived there the first 26 years of my life with a few short times in other cities. Those years happen to be the most formative part of my life. I have been telling various people stories about those times over the years. Most people have said you should write a book about those times.  I have written and taken various workshops and college courses, only having short piece's published. My devotion to career and family and education in Buffalo NY has consumed most of my time. I decided that I would make this effort to respond to my need to write my memoir. Somehow I have responded even though I have a very busy life. I am concerned that my efforts might only be small, yet I am already happy for this stimulation. Still I do know how I will learn something about myself and my process while I put my stories together and how it all will come together, of course. Small efforts combining and rewriting what I have already put together. It will be in the rewrites I foster some of my truth. If not all of it.  

By the time I got to New York I wanted advice; I continually found my fascination with Marilyn Monroe began because she had lived in New York City. I am sure that Alice Diamond, being of the New York style of an executive in the world of glamor was a part of the knowledge she imparted on me. Also she was aware more closely of all of Marilyn’s problems and stardom.  I really wasn’t, only the details of the family owned business, she was to impart on me.  I worked for her and forever ran to her for advice, she greatly influenced me. I wanted to be a star myself, so I didn’t focus on anyone but myself, navigating my new world. My inflated need for attention seemed to be getting in my way. Yet I had this wide eyed girl that lived in me. She told me I reminded her of Marilyn Monroe in my struggles.

Somewhere in the treasures of my Studio is a paper that had her words written on it: “To be an adult you need the ability to  handle conflict.” It still remains to be seen if I truly learned her advice.

Football Flirt!

It's Football time again, The Draft preparation has begun!  Do you roll out of bed and wish you could stay there or are you still excited by your job? Standing on the sidelines waiting for your very serious part of a game. Oh it is all serious; the job you chose so long ago!  Is anything as we thought it would be?  Not sure I ever thought things out. Just let them unfold. Today I sprang into my day's regular action where I don't tell stories as much anymore. I want to live my story. I don't know what is happening in my life or body, as I roll out of bed, wishing everyday to have a story making possibilities. A positive story. Are you laughing, or is God in Heaven? 

Who would ever think that I would be watching, laughing and thinking about leaving my bra on the sofa, bogged down by simply taking it off. I took it off like a teenage girl reaching it through my sleeve slipping the strap out and then pulling with freedom. I was chilled and didn’t feel like completely taking my shirt off.  I picked my bra up,I wanted to generate heat, but was swinging my bra overhead, making my own music without  music really working.

Who would ever think I would be caught in a fear of Football season. Something in myself that wants release. I am searching again, as the season changes and my morning breath wander's where I can proceed looking for joy, without the pressures of the day. Will watching you on the Football field bring joy or longing? Am I destined to always be a craving woman in order to keep my Flirt alive. Have you let my Flirt go for what is the point. Whatever this muddle in my day, will I keep my amusement alive as part of it all. Is yearning that exists in aging possible.  I don’t  want to make a habit of thirst, yet I still do! Why is it that I feel older since I had my Surgery to preserve my youth? Why do I ask why so often? Was it too much of an adult choice that I am not used to?Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

Choosing to let myself go in a metaphor or live in reality, this is big for me. I want to know all about who I am in love when I watch Football. Can I even handle it? What about the rules that keeps my teasing fun alive. Questions about can I write at all or simply record my feelings. Am I interesting, really? What I do know is I love loving! I love writing!

Fail Safe

Where does real time exist? I don’t have his truth or mine, writing over and over. Acceptance and warmth has brought me to as much trust as any given moment can give. When do answers become my wall of statements.  Words are well chosen, without the weight of commitment. For me it is a continual mystery which draws me back into the ambiguity in relationship to my stories.   Poetry and self-exploration still want to know life and some vision of truth.  My real assignment is how I shall know myself contained in an ever changing dynamic.

There is always a smile and warmth welcoming me, yet he too has question marks tattooed on his eyes. What will I offer in the way of entertainment? Eyes can say so much in our visits. I never know, even with a list in my hand, when my entertainment will take over. He doesn’t stop me. Perhaps his saying life isn’t always about stories is where I fall short. He has labeled me instead of saying defined statements, only open ended incredulity defined as my “fail-safe”. Categorizing is what he does as he writes formulas for health. Is there ever going to be answers instead of  open ended statements. Do I really want answers. I’m not sure I want an actual answer that might articulate itself, safely.  I want to live flexibly as I work with him; this is my art form, as he creates his science placed as an art in a laissez-faire manner. Even in my most outrageous moments I am presented with a warm regard.

 I can only imagine what he has seen, in his life with football players. Doctoring with him has never enough time. I’m allotted time where to really know is restricted. Isn’t this what a whole life is, an ongoing definition.  I would like to think that I am now beginning to really create the light openness just by showing up.  Perhaps there is no stopping me? He prescribes in his mind for me wellness, not confined by fear. I have enough tucked away while I wait for any opportunity or illness to see. No directive reactiveness, just responsive words that free me.

 I once asked him if he was so used to the football game running in front of him; he just let me run with my personal dynamic. Back and forth in front of him. His words were: “a good coach knows when to jump in.” His mind knows how to create a sport with whatever I offer. I would think he is the same with every other patient. His passive stance and being secure seems to drive me further into creating more stories. Even though he doesn’t believe life is more than stories, in his in an unidentifiable thrilling posture; he wanted me to like him. I am sure he didn’t know or care what that meant and neither did I.

Whirling again

Spinning into a labyrinth

His web tangled in mine

A quick swirl

Without feelings

 We move.

We repeat habits

Never really talking

Only evolving in comfort 

This is my fail-safe

Another story forms.

Facelift, Face Light!

Searching for my missed parent, looking for the attention of love I have never known. Not because I haven’t had it; but because the deep sense of fear existed within. What does love mean to me; I hadn’t allowed myself to recognize warmth and love from others.  This became an alarm system of love, retreating in the essence of whomever my focus was. This had was hard wired in me. I have been graced with more than I could have ever imagined in attention, still I struggle.  I now face the waning of my beauty.  I have just recognized I was beautiful, feeling myself now owning my beauty. I had pushed it away like love, living into a denial of just knowing I liked men to look at me. Men were never allowed into  my thoughts more than anything but in my imagination or durning what I thought was friendly play. My inner voice was one of self-criticism. It echoed that it can’t be true that I am beautiful; a proclamation of a continual mind whispers and even sometimes shouted at me. Am I beautiful? Am I still beautiful?

Do I now grab once again in perhaps some ill begotten effort to capture my departing youth or should I accept what is handed to me in my aging life. The universe showed me in my  new belief that I could own my beauty. Was this not a superficial need to get attention; wanting some face work?  My inner need could come from lack of self-acceptance. This may or may not be what I can or can’t live with as I searched for an answer. I had to stay open to where I am led and the consequences of whatever might come forth. The voice of I can’t be beautiful kept calling me as it announces itself. So I kept looking and making excuses. Even when a man I had known when I was young and now is an Oscar winner looked at me. I had gone to see him locally speak about his life. Bob Forester looked at me when we had been talking about a friend of ours and someone I had a relationship with. He said “You are a beautiful woman.” I had been sitting behind him till his autograph seekers stopped. A few years later he passed away and I particularly have to believe him.

He and I had once sat in a coffee shop near where I worked in Rochester NY. I probably asked him for coffee as well. When I was on a mission I just filled my time where I could, as he was a rising star who traveled between Rochester and LA. I really wanted to know more about our mutual friend but having fun than in the late 60’s was what I did and anyway I could  have fun seemed to be part of me. I believe he asked me for coffee but of course it doesn’t matter and he couldn’t remember.  Little did I know that he would tell me “I was a beautiful woman?”  I was going to have help to live with just a few more years to live with who I was becoming.

 

The Surgeon’s hand waits

Can I surrender to the unknown?

Feathering skins aged architecture.

This twist in how I view my nature

Skin sculpting as folds becomes clay

Softened taste of youth is all I request

Watching my mirrors truth

We will find a new definition.

Youths face lost except in spirits expression

A moment of artistry articulated

I request so little, no tight draw

One last extra mile is all I want.

Your tempered touch invited

My eyes have an artist’s view

With our eyes meeting as one

A celestial paintbrush is ignited

The Surgeon’s hand becomes mine.

Will my reality become his?

Breathe Longing

Where does real time exist? I don’t have anyone else’s truth, only mine, a Hollywood script I keep writing over and over. Acceptance and warmth has brought me to as much trust in any given moment. When answers are sometimes given off the wall, statements, are well chosen, without the weight of commitment. For me it is a continual mystery which draws me back into the ambiguity of relationships. Poetry and self exploration still are what I want to know. My real assignment is how I shall know myself contained in an ever changing dynamic.

You say hello…without hearing your voice

I laughed as you held me with words unsaid

I speak and venture where I dare not go

Here in the White of you, I dance on paper

My pen wrapped while flowing within

My speech takes flight.

Wings fly to you

Contained at center

Each line disturbs the pallid.

How are we attached to reaction or response?

Questions arise in shining a resting light.

I am given the taste and my thirst is quenched

Nectar found in our place and spread.

Touch me and I will touch you.

Tell me and I will now know.

 

 Breathe Longing!

My Breath is deep and long and at the same time I know it is a breath that wants release. Under this breath of longing my thoughts and age has given me an ache I don’t have a response to. Pain and memory seem to be lodged together and at long last I know I can open myself to be cared for. Understanding what has been held in the secret recesses of my mind. I see whatever I have danced away from in my life. Now I am being expressed in needs to heal my brokenness and discomfort.  I am grieving once again and writing about my mother's inability to give me any kind of pleasure for being alive, as I look back this is where my confusion is met with remembered needs. Enmeshed within our bonds and my historical knowledge has brought me an understanding of what happened in my life. My natural instinct is to want to forget and not feel. I know that I must remember in order to repair and appreciate who I am.

My Outsider Art

 I sit within my latest fantasy and realizing as I’ve decided never to read any erotic romances.  My life on the other hand had been entrenched with the absence of the color of gray. At this point my colorful nature exists for only a few people in my life. . I got five chapters into reading “Fifty Shades of Gray” and realized this book was too close to a  story of a very important life experience; that still haunts me. Life seems to be dragging me into expressing what I have never been able to articulate. I don’t need to read romance novels; I have discovered I am one. Wrapped and often tormented by the longings I retrieve my fantasy life. Then with the many interactions and love affairs with life’s happenings. I’ve been correlating a remembrance where I have come from and how I have gotten to who I am now. Establishing relationships with various people, built over time, shows me with increasing intensity the novel that exists inside. My story was one of fantasy and fiction, laced with my expressive personality. Honesty has been a gift and a torment for me; much like the continual ache for what I don’t have rather than what I do. My creativity has perpetuated my life and often sparked a vibrancy allowing me to glow inside. I credit my life’s depth with living in New York City and San Francisco as well as my ocean voyage to England and back. Playing and having fun with Rock and Rollers, Radio and TV personalities, as well as working to help in making TV commercials. All of my years have just unfolded as opposed to having a careful plan; my free spirit was supported by being part of a change generation where free love was attached to my abandonment. I danced with all those who were just outside the mainstream. An outsider I became and perhaps as hard as I have worked at being conventional, I am not and never have been.

Motherhood an Absolute

Time, what does time mean on a list of what matters. A single act of courage that forwards and carries me through my life. Moving out of one instant and shaping events, forming who and how inspiration creates my essence, core and truth. Will I count at any given instant, forming and defining my opinions, residing in enlightenment.  Will I leave a legacy of words, heart and trust; because I have become a friend finding love in friendship. Defining is what matters. Time precludes moving forward without a thought of purpose. The most important delineation was when I became a mother. Why was there no clarity. I had decided to ask my son once what had I done that mattered? My ever questioning mind complicated this thought. In one clear voice he said:  “Why Me” This was a truth that he knew; he was loved.

Universal questions abound; do you have children? How many, on and on. We decided and that was it. No long term romance of this thought, we never defined completely when married. A moment in time without continual romantic interaction. Our hopes of poetic bliss were preempted  in a flash. Wondering in our pregnancy and hopes of being plural became a noun. Was this a universal action to focus the love I was to build.  

My time ticks as the clock reminds me I am always a mother in absolutes,no abstractions, no poem that can’t be understood. A complete sentence that I conceived and built within and he will build his life, remembering he was loved by a father and a mother. 

Questions

Mom I need you; why are you doing this? What happened to Daddy? Why can’t you talk to me? Why are you crying?  Leave those babies alone, get them out of our house and bring my Daddy back, and where is my brother? I want them and me to have our Western Egg sandwiches together after we went to the rifle range. We would have a family dinner late... Where and why did he go away?  You barely cook for me. 

I wasn’t told what happened; I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. My father who lavished me with attention and my brother with his teasing, that only a teenage boy can offer.  He left and where and why was he gone. “Children were to be seen and not heard” this was a quote that lingers within my memory as I was to stay home and not to be allowed to participate in much. My mother’s fear took over.  I don’t know when it happened; if it was a year or a month, but a neighborhood child said to me: “I hear your daddy is all dead and buried.”  I imagine this is when I stopped wanting to eat and I started stuffing my needs. My mother’s grief and requirements were to be the center of what I had to live with!

As I returned to my home leaving my son in New York City with his wife. I watched him creating his own life and knowing he was given all the love I never knew. Yes she loved me in her own fearful way, yet as I create just another story hoping it will come together in a readable form to be read. 

 I talked to my husband about my one true sentence that my writing teacher offered:  From Hemingway and a poem spilled onto a scrap of paper just before I went to sleep.

Walking with stories yet to be written

Only lines wanting their form

Stating each line meeting with paper 

Leaving my hurts to be released

Orders freed from my heart.

The Birth of Love

This notion of surrogacy is how I feel about my sexuality; the rallying of my own spirit as a sensual woman has been ignited. Not to say I am dying but I feel I am hanging on to my sensual self by a thread. To experience all the beauty I never allowed myself to believe I could have. Thinking I am now someone to have an Allures, unknowingly, not yet believed. I never felt beautiful, even though I was. This Is because of my childhood experiences , as a young woman and child, who moved through life with a love for men as I searched for another man and father that I never had... Now as I find  torment in my nights, I want one last rally, knowing that I have a crush on a man who I “think” I can trust. I wanted to dance  with my wild imagination.  I am not dying but longing for attention.

Yes indeed I am a desperate old woman with a very young mind and spirit that wants to embrace being loved with the passion of a once young beautiful woman. I have just begun owning my beauty; I want to be with a man who is younger who treasures who I am.  Much like the ownership of my being a poet with a new confidence, I feel the beauty of who I am. Nowhere now to engage this desperation outcome from a dream not knowing where I will go? I am going to breathe through this and hold my actions and thoughts as much as possible. Yet in my past thoughts I have seen what I focus on I attract.  Ah but this caprice is just so pleasurable to have one last fling. What will the universe allow? Would it complicate or appease? 

The Surrogate Wish

I have had the privilege of being with a handful of people just before they made ready to pass from this world. Being with the dying is an honor as far as I am concerned. When it meets my mind's vision; it is the moment when the truth of the person is most ignited.  I seem to have seen these people do what is known as “rallying” to dance just once before they let go. My girlfriend's husband (Lou) had admiration that allowed him friends and family that wanted every minute with him. Some of those friends were Doctors. These Doctors were able to keep him out of pain without losing his passionate spirit and personality, that spoke so well of him.. One of the men who were there to support him was a Doctor and Oncologist and Lou was dying of Cancer at age 54.  To his credit I watched him rally one last day doing his fantasy baseball and eat his favorite sandwich even though his body had already started shutting down. The ability to eat in the mist of dying for me speaks to the power of the human spirit. He also got to read my last written words to him.  He told my girlfriend, his wife; that I was a poet. Lou’s words were: “Why Dona is a Poet”.  I think coming from a man who was dying; his words took on a whole new meaning for me. I was able to say I am a Poet with a bit more confidence. This is my knowledge brought to me from people in who are close to their last days.

My Truth

The truth I need to unleash, I have found myself on the doorstep of a lost little girl crying to take me home and love me. That's not how it works, I know it but do I fully understand.

I have the ability to integrate this into my heart, Yet I’m stuck! 

"There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth... not going all the way, and not starting." 

~ Buddha