A pulse

A pulse that beats within me says:
Write. Write. Write.
But the voice that governs my actions decides
You don't have the time.

I walk and I read and I plan and I work.
I pay bills and send emails and go places
I'm scheduled to be.
Showing up is the key to success...

But all I want to do is write.
All I want to do is my future...
All I want is to be done

But alas...it's unwritten.

Jungle

Special? Maybe. Lonely, definitely. A path wild with vines and bushes and obstacles because it isn't travelled very often. A thorn sticks from her foot and makes the trip painful with every step. But to stop is not an option. Tears and blood drip along the leaves of passing trees as she grasps trunks and pushes against them to make a dent in this journey of hers. Breathing heavily she remains steady and marches onward. Good things happen, too. Light breaks through the dense wilderness and shines briefly across her face but there is something blocking her from enjoying it. A dark, oppressive mist that gathers around her feet, clouds her vision and even takes away the warmth from a directly shining sun. Stopping is not an option. Whispers come out of the jungle around her, voices and taunts. 'Not good enough.' 'Just go back the way you came. It's easier.' 'Who are you kidding? This path wasn't meant to be forged.' Sometimes she listens. Mostly when it's in the dead of night and the only companions are the dead stars hanging above the dead planet. But still, like the beating of her pulse, she carries onward. Trying new directions, using new tools to cut her way forward, dreaming of the end of this path, praying it will eventually join up with a river or a road or a path less overgrown. They tell her that she's special. Quietly she pounds forward, their words falling on deaf ears. She needs to earn it. To prove it. To feel it. And as she walks onward into the night and listens to the whispers she knows...she's not there yet.

Special? Maybe. Lonely, definitely. A path wild with vines and bushes and obstacles because it isn't travelled very often. A thorn sticks from her foot and makes the trip painful with every step. But to stop is not an option. Tears and blood drip along the leaves of passing trees as she grasps trunks and pushes against them to make a dent in this journey of hers. Breathing heavily she remains steady and marches onward. Good things happen, too. Light breaks through the dense wilderness and shines briefly across her face but there is something blocking her from enjoying it. A dark, oppressive mist that gathers around her feet, clouds her vision and even takes away the warmth from a directly shining sun. Stopping is not an option. Whispers come out of the jungle around her, voices and taunts. 'Not good enough.' 'Just go back the way you came. It's easier.' 'Who are you kidding? This path wasn't meant to be forged.' Sometimes she listens. Mostly when it's in the dead of night and the only companions are the dead stars hanging above the dead planet. But still, like the beating of her pulse, she carries onward. Trying new directions, using new tools to cut her way forward, dreaming of the end of this path, praying it will eventually join up with a river or a road or a path less overgrown. They tell her that she's special. Quietly she pounds forward, their words falling on deaf ears. She needs to earn it. To prove it. To feel it. And as she walks onward into the night and listens to the whispers she knows...she's not there yet.