I was happy to be alone
writing in my solitary fashion.
Pen in hand, ideas boiling
from my head, rolling out of
my pen.
writing in my solitary fashion.
Pen in hand, ideas boiling
from my head, rolling out of
my pen.
I was able to sit in my quiet places
never exchanging many words with you.
I was unafraid of sitting only
with my self
and my ideas.
Your present absence
made it easy.
For years I lived life
on a stack of pages
while you existed,
a nebulous, unseen someone
on the periphery of me.
Now you are gone;
tired of living alone,
I suppose you were
unamused by the muse
of a woman writing,
of a woman writing,
always writing.
And for the first time
And for the first time
I am afraid of the dark
and
my own company
###
Poem by Pamela Tyree Griffin
