Eyes and Mind

I have want of you,
Oh how I miss you,
Miss the knowledge that I see you,
Just as I am seen,
For my words,
And the soft subtle space in between,
How I miss your eyes and your mind,
Those that I’ve never not loved,
Those that I can get not enough of.

Who am I to Write a Sermon?

Who am I to write a sermon?
I silently ask myself,
As I settle into my being,
And wonder,
I wonder and it extends to my hand,
Travels down through my fingers,
That now itch with a need to write,
To write words of hope,
And then
Breathless with completion,
I stare down at my work in wonder,
Who am I to write a sermon?

Write On

I have run to you,
I have run from you,
In fear of self,
In fear of the unknown,
I have deleted my poems,
And such,
Fearing the power of others hands they might touch,
But who am I?
Whose feelings could be wanted?
So needed to be manipulated?
I am no one.

And therein lies the rub,
If I am no one,
I am nothing,
But I am something,
I am someone,
I cannot be no one,
And thus,
I am important,
I am unique,
I am valuable…

And if so I have much to protect,
I can either refuse to live, to preserve ever being harmed,
Or I can revolt against fear and oppression,
Determined to preserve my existence and living,
And thus,
I wage my own internal battle against uncertainly,
And pledge to live;

And so I write on.