“You don’t understand.”

“I suppose I don’t,” I say…

…”I swear I used to.”

I want to help you.

Because I’d love very much

To see you smile.

Life’s a constant work--

And an unwritten novel.

Possibility.

Stuck on chapter one,

You cannot stop trying to

Erase the mistakes

Erasing so much--

the paper is wearing down:

to holes and ridges.

Mapped in the prologue

Is my future’s solid plan--

My page has holes, too.

--The ridges will come,

It will not be perfection;

Tears will stain the pages.

Can’t erase it all.

Tears will dry--so we must write.

Please don’t stop writing.

Some authors may plan.

Others--spontaneity.

There is no “correct.”.

But one cannot write

Without the spilled mess of ink.

Please--write an ending.