I wish I could be more to you, dear words-
You who stem from my imagination so young in it's life.
Once, you gave me a thriving yet quite false confidence.
I adorned every line with valiance,
prideful was I with each stroke.
Stepping back now and again to drink in your brilliance
as any artist might.
Now, dear words, you bring both fear and excitement.
A thrilling sort of sense, really.
How I still love you!
Yes, I still love you.
Bur our future together remains and uncertain patch of thorns.
I need you as one might a drug,
or food,
be it addiction or instinct
I know not.
Precisely the issue I suppose.
I know not enough of you, dear words,
for you and I to be taken seriously.