They are somewhere beyond my reach. My brain searches for them like four leaf clovers among ordinary grass. Sometimes I find one, pure perfect and alone. I pluck it and then what?
I make my living throwing words on a script, telling the hard, ugly news of the day to people half listening while they cook dinner.
I turn phrases, use puns and scare them with faux warnings about over exaggerated dangers. I write as if I am a caring friend but I am a stranger who only wants your eyes and ears for 30 minutes.
What I write is not the real me, those are the work a day words, the shallow, treat them like your friend words.
The real me comes out only with the rare words, the elusive ones. That is the writing that still escapes me. That is what I long for.
How do I put my heart, or my hope into words??? How do I express my soul?? Those are the words my brain reaches for.. they are there...but do not come easily.
They are treasure, worth searching for, worth finding.
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