This an Open Door

This is an open door.

I lost all I wrote because I wrote it all here on this website.

It doesn’t have an open auto-save feature.

Writing without a parachute—wow, there’s nothing scarier.

Aching to find the rhythm, the right words, the balance between saying what you mean and saying what you feel and saying what you see in the darkest, furthest room of your time-addled brain where the door is always locked

Until in a sliver of time a sliver of light from the sliver of ajar

You can quietly, carefully, breathlessly peek

And then run away as fast as you can holding the same breath

To bring it back to the page

Let it spill out as you heave for fistfuls of words and air

Nearly dead

But you’ve got it

You read and re-read and salve the burning lungs with the murmur of words that finally came

You fall asleep on the pillow of artfully crafted lines

Perfect little words marching in a perfect little line

You spend your blissful day basking in the warmth of achievement

You want to read it again but it’s gone because there’s no auto-save

And, understandly, in the climax of triumph, you forgot to save yourself

So this place is an open door, sometimes words will stay,

sometimes they