There used to be a time when a blank page would inspire me to write everything within. Now I stare and stare wondering which words will fall out of the waterfall of my soul that just keeps pouring into an endless basin. There are no entrances into this pool surrounded by a tightly knit grove. Was there a thorn on that tree? Was that a leading path overgrown with brush?
And so, I close and close down a little more with each drop of pummeling water undergoing the pressure above me. My droplets wish to escape into the atmosphere, but it’s cooled now and slowly the waters turn into ice. Where did the leaves of the tree go and why has the sun burned a cool yellow up above?
Help me breathe again and relieve this pressure that pushes me farther down pummeling into the surface. All I need is for a white flower to grow through the snow, camouflaged enough so it remains undisturbed. Break down the walls of the grove and warm the pools that fill from me.
hellenbarroso 