“It is never to late to be what you might have been.”

- George Eliot

I found this poem that I wrote many years ago.  I can’t remember the last time that I really sat and wrote.  I would like to start writing again, but at the time I wrote this I was going through a really hard time.  Sometimes I feel that my writing is best when I am in a “bad” place.  When I am happy I don’t seem to connect with writing as much.  I don’t know if that makes any sense to anyone else, but it does to me.  The last couple of years I have been in the most wonderful place and hope to never be in that “bad” place again. But does this mean that the connection with writing has been severed?

Wait
Just a moment in time
Freeze
The movie in your mind
Put aside the whispers
Filter out the doubt
You search for something that isn’t there
Am I a mystery? I think not
You listen to my voice, and call me an angel
This angel is flesh and blood
Not a doll to be put out on show
You – I am not a mystery
I am me
I am flesh and blood
Touch me please, I will not break
There is no mystery here
I am me
Here I am – desire abound
Relentless and sensuous – yours to caress
Like a flower; make me bloom
I’m not a mystery
I’m just me.