w, w, w

with every morning comes a pain and a dream

wounds, old and new, boil and fester;

wednesdays have never felt longer

why do we choose to change?

words, shiny goodnesses, rays of hope,

when we tell ourselves we can be more;

wind in our hair, blowing away what we know

worries in our minds, culminating, overpoured;

writing with a scramble, a hunger to understand

wanting more, wanting better, for the first time

willing ourselves to be true

willpower at our finest

weakness at our truest

wine, red or white, spilling down our throats,

washing away memories of

wicked ways and wiles, or of

willful love, or wanton hopes,

or wistful dreams—

we are human; we feel it all the same