Poor writing inward fighting and hiding scripts.
From her friends, from the ones she loves, those that she hates.
Embarrassed but clear.
Spending time washing down the fence for which to white wash.
She falls in this way.
In regret and hope and dishonesty.
That what she’s written is not her best.
So she feels alone and without dignity.
Like a hand knitted night gown pleaded in a rival gang’s colors.
Like an atheist in a foxhole, her heart is filled with apprehension.
Without comfort and without companionship she is left to her work.
To continue to invest time in what she has burned away from.
Like a flame internally burning itself out
But its job is to be a flame.
So it spends its time burning.
Embarrassed she remains alone in her craft.
Spending countless hours to perfect what is widowed.
To invest in what is spent.
She writes for the pleasure of others, reads for herself, and shares it all with none.
- Nick Rotola
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