Aurora Magazine 2017

Betsy Arseneau The Pen

Striving to write since I was about fifteen Words swirling around in my head

At some moments it seems Not written down by a pen. A fear of uncertainty Soaring all the way up to ten.

The cycle on repeat Starting and stopping like a washer gone bad But inside of me A creative mind lingers in my head to grab. But on one cold spring day A pen I clutched And held tightly in my hand The words flew out of my mind so fast On to the fragile paper But could it last? When words finally put together Perceived to be a light A numbness came over me That I am to write. Whether good or bad to someone else Undoubtedly a bell

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