Writer Crews

Words turn into serrated black claws ripping their way across the page. Dark moments, exhausting the pen, muddy blood of emotion. I should be afraid to write them, but my will is to pull your heart out and show you it beating, dripping in my palm... so you can see it, feel it, and perceive the pain that I write. My only fear is that you won't.

Sometimes we need to rip off the wrapping to see inside. Sometimes we need a breakdown before a breakthrough - The darkness of womb before the light of birth, Reborn. If only every tear down preceded a rebuilding but sometimes, nothing is put back together. Sometimes, the egg shells still lie scattered from the fall. Less a rebirth, than a shifting of sands - blown distant singed by sun dry solitude. A breakdown, tearing off the pretty paper that held the gift together, exposing the reality and rawness of solitary self. Reminding of mortality, fragility... grace. Sometimes, we can patch and repaper Sometimes, cover, take-back, lick and stick torn tissue back to form... No longer a strong solid support but a mature, majestic, pieced together mosaic.

Obsidian Smooth dripping, melting me softening edges malleable mood malleable me hands meld heating molding the space between us touched together two lives strong enough to stand apart strength enough to gently touch hearts A kindness surrounds us flows and bubbles around the love tickling, lightly, living, breathing Obsidian smooth