These lines are the work.
My wandering.
My toil.
My failure.
My reward.
These lines are coming out.
My shame.
My acceptance.
My doubt.
My gift.
These lines are love.
My ache.
My relief.
My lament.
My comfort.
These lines are evolution.
My adversity.
My triumph.
My defeat.
My growth.
These lines are the years.
My grief.
My joy.
My pain.
My every day.
These lines on my life.
These lines on my face.
These lines on me.
I thought this was about your writing until I read the last lines. A lovely poem.
ReplyDeleteOr maybe it was intended to be both? (I wish I was that clever!)
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