Writing Practice

My pen hesitates longly before it can engage with the blank, white page. Sometimes it's enough just to imagine writing. To let the thoughts, the rhymed and rhythmic sentences, reverberate within the skull's walls.

 

But the point of writing group is full participation, so pen hits page and words tumble as I let the somethings fall as they may (pieces? That's too mundane to have become a saying. Oh yes: Chips! Let them fall, those bits of the old block—old blockhead—fall as they may, scattering like a bride's rose petals onto the lines of my white page.)

 

Sometimes it's enough to wander without focus because sometimes that's all there is.

 

 

 

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