It feels that this is one of those days where inspiration hides behind me. I catch glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye. I hear it whispering to me, yet the words are mere shivers on the wind. How can one grasp the untangible? Reach for it. So, I write creating an extension through my subconscience to a realm of creativity. Tap into the dream like wake of streaming beliefs is easy, making sense of the maddness is not. Questioning my own questions has gotten me to nowhere which everyone knows is truly now here. It's elusive, like a mouse to a cat on a hunt. I feel it's there yet cannot grasp it's ever present, ever moving quality. I feel like I'm hunting up fairies!

Could it be

that you & me

no longer see eye to eye?

I'd hate to trample

upon you, my dear, yet

you continue to lie.

Why?

There's nothing more here

for me, it's clear.

The roses that I planted

out of the love you took for granted

shall continue on without my care.

No, I will not prune them.

I will no longer groom them.

Oh! You don't feel it's fair?

With my hats & my shoes

I'll pack my gowns & leave town!

No longer a slave to this, our home.

I'll brave the unknown!

I am a wild rose. You cannot tame me!

Watch me grow on, rambling free.

traveler's rose

There are many roses thought to be perfect in their form, grown as such in ideal conditions and nurtured with loving hands, given all it could ever need to grow into an object of beauty, to be selectively cut and taken to a place where all who looked upon it would sigh at it's breathtaking grace.This is hardly the case for every rose. It is possible to find one growing not in a greenhouse but between rocks and sand. It does not hold the same grace, nor appear as pleasing to the eye. For her roots are wild, just as the stems have grown crooked, struggling to reach the surface as she continued to grow in the harshest of circumstances.There is a greater strength in a rose grown as such; a tortured delicacy, too. Sprouted from the hardest of earth in a place no one may ever notice. This rose will not be selected for the bridal bouquet, the prom corsage or set as a marker atop a beloveds final bed.This rose; petals smelling so sweet, aware of the sun, the moon and stars, the tickle of the bumble bee and the taste of rain will never be given away as yet another symbol of sentimentality. Human hearts may never understand why this rose grows for no man. This is God's beauty, a delicate smile which will only grow more grand with each passing year.If a traveler should come upon her lovely blooms he will stop and admire. Perhaps, a picture he will take. To pick her, he wouldn't, yet smell her he must. With the memory of the petals gentle caress, he'll walk away knowing he let a wild rose grow.