Okay my second blog on here 😉 Enjoy everyone
Current mood: artistic
BY HEATHER PATRICK
(Excerpt from journal entry dated 7/22/04)
The words on the paper
Tell a story.
A painting of one�s inner soul or
A brush stroke of painted words.
Every stroke a different line.
A labor of love
What comes from the pen?
May be sheer nonsense
Or it may make perfect sense.
What causes the artist to pause?
What is missing
From the paragraph
What hidden codes
Lie between the letters.
I ask this question every day to myself.
And as I do this,
Fragments of consciousness form.
Where do these come from??
My own private muse who comes at her whim.
Is it my inner self bared to the masses,
Naked to all?
I stumble around in the dark finding meaning to
This painting called my life.
A rut in the road is just a block I devised to protect
Myself from the one who wants to embrace me.
Who sleeps deep within my psyche.
Some days I feel old, I feel like an old woman who
Finds she has lost what she holds most dear and the
Years go by.
The older you get the faster time flies.
Your kids become adults leaving you to wonder
Where your baby you carried lovingly in your womb
These are just thoughts of a wearied mind. Tired of
Answering my own riddles seeking clarity
Wherever life leads me.
With this line I close this entry for the day.
The wolf whispers her profound secrets of simplicity.