A Walk In The Wrong Shoes
Each door appears, creaking to open an inch, but it closes unexpectantly. It happens often, should I be surprised. Each opportunity to unveil a burning desire to prove a life-long passion, to belong.
Writing a form of therapy, I wish could become my life, to write, to create, to form a craft. But at each entrance to progress, to develop and the same obstacle appears. It’s a bind I cannot shake, a critic I can no longer take.
The thing I cannot change, my age, my home, the colour of my skin, or my heritage, or my apparent lack of it.
As I stake my pencil to the page, the blank canvas a reminder, of my failing from birth. Is it worth it, even taking the time to imagine, to fall in love with crafting a space that is product of the unbound mind?
When my efforts are left unchecked, unguided. Each research into connecting with others, falls away, to be smacked in the face by the application criteria.
I’m getting the feeling,
I am walking again.
The pencil turns, a smile returns, I write.
A Walk In The Wrong Shoes
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