lead not the common path.

As the writer sits, and scribes her story.
Four walls surrounding, withered carpet, dented walls.
Nothing more than necessary.
As the pen glides, she attempts to explain her thoughts, feelings, the story she calls her own.
Her critics crowd her mind, and invade her thoughts.
a trip down memory lane.
Searching for words that will connect with her readers,
anything that will make her feel alive, and open; open to the world..
a people pleasing life, hoping someone will commend her, for her work.
A feeling crosses.
Haze, and confusion.
as she questions her future.
Questions if this process is for her, if it is worth it to keep going.
As she puts the pen down and decides there is more to her; more to life.
She finds that this confined space she has found herself in, is not her.
She is trying her hardest to explain, justify, and prove herself to those around her.
There is more to life than trying to fit in with those around yourself.
Trying to fit others puzzles, when your edges are far more unique than theirs.
For the writer saw a glimpse of her life, and decided its time for a new page in her story.
One that flows, is comfortable, is her.
Finally.
As she feels the breath of fresh air, she rises above the rest.
But at times she may not always be blessed with the knowledge of where her path is leading.
and the time approaches where she shuffles, and treads along. 
She forces herself to take one more step into the unknown.
And maybe this near impossible step she took, is finally the first step in the right direction.
Maybe it will all turn up from here, and the road she now paves, is the one for her.
but maybe it isn't,
but at this point, what does the writer have to loose?
The page turns as she continues to walk, and maybe the pen will be picked up once more down the road. 
But maybe it won't be, for the writer has found a new meaning.
For the writer has been found.