A man once asked

“how long have you written?”

I laughed at the foolishness

of a question like that
All my life

words flow

just natural

coming from me

like every breath

I take
although sometimes

I swear I gasp

struggling to write

like I do to breathe
but it’s never because

there’s a lack

of things to say

but rather it’s the battle

that all writer’s face
“Do I dare stand naked

bare my soul

write my heart out

and let strangers see?
Should I censor

hide between the covers

in case someone

reads between the lines?
I stand there

at the ragged edge

between poetry and pain

holding a pen 

in one hand

and my disguise

in the other
And then the door 

opens wide

I step inside

words tumbling 

across the threshold

where there’s 

a leather bound book

waiting to be filled
Jeanna’ Mead

6 45 a.m


One thought on “Threshold

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