Writers Block - A poem in three parts

A piece of paper, unmarred and crisp. Blue lines in sharp contrast to the smooth white. I pour myself onto it. Close, tight muscle movments. I think too fast for the paper to ever know what's happening. Those who write of love could never write of me. I occur too quickly for myself. I write not from arrogance or a necessary sense of self preservation. These are the words of a desperate woman. Or a scared girl. I'm not entirely sure which one I am. On one hand I am seven. Diry and enthralled but trapped by my age. On the other I am seventy. Well versed and alive but trapped by my age. Dear reader. Look beyond my age and into my soul. I am more than my seventeen years. I am a teacher, a mother, a fighter and a conscientious objector. I who have loved more passionately than you could imagine. I dare not to say you have not loved as I have but rather that you cannot imagine that I could know love at my age. The sense of love is with us all. From birth we love. And we are able to love, a thousand times over and over, the incorrect and correct persons. You cannot put a ban on love. It cannot conform to your standards or your rules. They mean nothing to it. Love is an inconvience. It will not be there when you want it nor when when you believe you need it. You cannot expect it to check your schedule first. You can only surrender now or fight it and surrender later. There's no point in labeling it or transforming it into something formulaic. It is never at first glance what it will be when you walk away. This paper, fresh and new, is now love. Consider everything multifaceted. Dear reader, are you in love yet?