I was told that writers are hard
Work. We complain, we whine,
We want what we cannot have:
Perfection.

But we’re worth it.

The tears of many wash upon our
Brows. The hearts of many wash
Clean with our tears, our dreams:
Hope.

But it’s not that easy.

To love that which is hard, is harder
Work. It requires bends, requires flexes,
Requires a peace of being and self:
Unshaken.

But so few are willing to try.

The steps begin, and already, doubts
Arise. We worry, we consider,
We want things at a distance:
Hesitation.

But easy is not part of the equation.

This is no math postulate, no
Work. This is our lives, a war,
This is a soul endeavor, a trial:
Transition.

But growth isn’t square pegs or round holes.

The life of a writer is growing, growing
Stronger. We place import on change,
The change in us, in our readers:
Character.

But it is all too easy to get lost.

I wish I could tell you how the time
Works. We see, we wonder,
We never really know:
Answers.

But the words are not there.

I would give you the stars, the
Fire. We would hold the heat,
The wonder between us:
Whispers.

But I have heard that writers are hard.

I would give you all, every ounce of
Work. A writer is never done, never sated,
Never wanting to be finished:
Immortality.

But all I have to give you is a little piece of mind.