Be

Wayward

Within its inevitable destruction; 

A recipe for perfect poetry.

Am I merely a character 

Straight out of fiction

Or a more complex version 

Of the face 

That you think you see? 

For we are all characters 

In the novels we write, 

Becoming who we have always 

Dreamed to be,

But do we dare to ever dream in color?

Saving the best for last, 

Never striving for anything better

Than what our cold trembling hands can touch;

Afraid of the truths that we might find 

Or the doors that may be opened.

If we could only put the pen down 

For one moment

And just be.-