This is me.
This one person-
often afraid to call herself a writer,
worried that she will offend those who really are.
This woman
who struggles just to trend water-
is desperate to move on-
has her manuscript saved as a Microsoft file,
hidden away in her back-log, where it will stay-
This woman
who sits up late
to re-read her favorites,
in the hopes that the words Bronte chose
will inspire her own,
This woman
who listens to the music
when it's there to be heard
and when it isn't-
wondering if there is more to hear that way,
This woman
who faces the fear
and uncertainty that comes with the territory
comes with the desire to be better
and go farther
because it beats the alternative,
This woman,
who takes her coffee black - one sugar
and considers milk chocolate, poison
but still admits,
with her head hung, low
to a love of sugary cereal,
This woman
who squeals as a child of five or six might
when one, small piece of happiness comes her way
and allows her to remain content for days,
This is me.
