"Write to learn," she instructs one to do.
So words are penned in hope of Her.
Hesitated decision, calculated phrase,
the words force fed
are slithering through my maze.
So much time has passed,
usually things go quickly.
What is the point of this?
It feels quite sickly.
But as the imperfect earth,
groans from its pangs,
so too for a pack of words
to spring forth its potential fangs.
So begin with doubt, yet travel with speed.
Stop not for one second,
for there is no need.
Let go of all fear -
- of some sloppy unintention.
For you will arrive with a jewel,
worthy of Her attention.