Writing Cost Something

I'm dropping my token of words

and hoping this little discipline of unperfected lines,

 bending under a timer and

I wonder what can be said when blank screens mock.

When I feel emptied out.

 Tugged of all I have, pulled by teaching and Mommying and

cleaning the same spot 20 times a day

and refereeing siblings and feeling like each

morning is the same mess

different calendar number

and honest writing isn't paid with dollars

it's paved in lives.

Minutes seems like small little coins slipped

into a time machine of words and though they seem as

speckled dots before eternity

writing always cost something.

And honest writing is sometimes

paid by things already spent, a past we've known,

or new and fresh and raw,

a lifted lid to our inside

or up against the clock,

or emptied, where silence is all we have

and we pay to write, to art our lives in however we're gifted.

Maybe yours isn't writing.

But you have something.

And I've learned how not writing for years

wasn't really about the silence
or something lost

but about laying things down and letting it be

all the imperfect ways which are made straight

when pathed in Him.

Speaking of how we truly are

even in puddles of muddied water

making it all for One our Heavenward thing.

How He takes the foolish things to confound the wise,

our dirty mess speaking volumes of how Holy yearns to clean it up 

and writing or artfully living for Him cost
to be a Master's piece.

Linking up with Emily's "Imperfect Prose".