I have a book in my brain.
The aura is misty and the idea vague.
It rumbles around inside me, bumping into bits of me,
Sometimes my hear flutters, sometimes my stomach churns.
I put endless cups of tea to my lips.
Waiting for the book to emerge, revealing itself.
It appears to play hide and seek, a taunting playful child,
The more I try to capture it, the more it flees.
I type saving and recycling my writing to the extras folder.
They are doomed not again to see the light of day.
I wonder why I chose to write, to delve into the mess inside me,
To find the courage to speak my truth.
I write to set myself free.
Opening the door for others to also be free.
To be transparent, openly sharing the pain and the learning,
To help, to heal.