She shifted her feet for the dozenth time, trying to remember all that she had meant to say before approaching the door. Palms clenching with a squelch before she looked down with a disgusted sigh; shaking the hands out with a mutter.
"You are a calm and secure person with a lot to offer, you make a good carrot cake and can fold laundry without wrinkles, no worries!"
The last of that motivational speech came out slightly cracked and raised, an eyebrow joined it as she shook her head at her own folly.
"Just knock on the door, what is the worst that could happen?"
"Uh, uh, laughter and looks that ask why I've bought a scrap of ink dotted paper to a place of such importance?"
"I need to stop talking to myself, what if someone is in there, hears this and adds crazy to the list, just drop it and go Fluke!"
Heeding her own perhaps slightly over reactive advice she placed the paper with all the squiggles and ink blots carefully on the floor in front of the door. Perhaps with luck, the wind might blow it away and now one need ever know she had ventured here. She turned and started away with stealthy little steps better suited to a skulk.
Below are the sum of the marks on the paper in full.
Age: Does that still apply these days? I don't know, Botox has changed things and women old enough to be my grandmother look thirty. When did everyone younger than me start looking like they're prepubescent and definitely not old enough to be driving by themselves? 30.
Writing form of Choice: Do I have to choose just one? I mean I would choose poetry but to be honest I would miss telling stories and being involved in them, there's a great deal to miss out on in this world.
Description: Over exuberant with a dash of terror? Or do they mean my looks? A strange lady with odd clothing and brightly coloured hair? Or my brain... foggy and caffeine fueled run by a Squirrel and a Cat.
Applicational Submitted Writing:
Lift thine eyes to the tumbling heavens
Drink ye cup of darkened spirits
For tonight I shall tell ye of magical wonders
And show ye all I have seen
Blood crusted Jewels
Stone cold, uncaring
A sweet lovers caress
Softly warm and heartfelt
Keep an eye on the path for it is rocky and hard fought
And listen to all of the words you've been taught
But remember of all the ones of love
The sweet bewitchment that comes from above.
I'm naught but a wanderer and though my passion flies
My pen is held with wooden hand that captures but a guise
Of silken thoughts that float across a space that does not understand time
My head is filled with imagery that cannot be described
My soul longs to give voice to what I see but it hunkers deep inside
Please accept this humble offering, I'm sorry if it slights
My poetry is what I do when I cannot sleep at nights.
The Teal Poet