For years, I have dreamed of perfecting
my designated writing practice.
More tears, a bridle scheme of collecting
my heavy laden loneliness.
Somewhere along the way, I was told
that the true artist is on their own,
that no one can bear the weight they hold.
The cave became my home.
When inspiration strikes,
I long for the time and space to write.
When I find the time and space to write,
I long for inspiration to strike.
If only there was another way?
To view life just as valuable
as the time and space
dedicated to create?
I would like to see the light of day.
To expand my creativity
beyond the time spent on a page
to something I embody.