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I read your stories. 

The one about the girl 

who fixes the moon.

She climbs a ladder 

and paints in the missing bits;

Also copy kitten, 

and baby butterfly (is that even a thing?)

and the one about the clown fish and the crab,

alliterative animals 

prancing about in your head 

Let them out, girl

What are you afraid of? 

That they won't sound as good on paper

as they did when the words first tumbled out of you, 

heedless of form or logic?

After all, your three-year old 

was gonna love anything you say anyway.

Or that your kids are growing up now,

and you don't have an audience 

to make up nonsense stories for? 

You will never know till you try them, 

so just give it a shot, Jem

I read your stories. 

The one about the girl 

who fixes the moon.

She climbs a ladder 

and paints in the missing bits;

Also copy kitten,

the one who copies her mum 

in everything

and ends up saving her life;

And the one about the baby butterfly

(is that even a thing)? 

but it was thrilling, 

her ride on the back of another butterfly, 

swooping low to escape the hawk:

Even the one about the clown fish and the crab,

which find prehistoric hatchlings

in a treasure box at the bottom of the ocean,

and bring them up on sea weed

You should take these out of the drawer, girl.

Send those words out.

What are you afraid of? 

That they won't sound as good on paper

as they did when the words first tumbled out of you, 

heedless of form or logic?

After all, your three-year old 

was gonna love anything you say anyway.

Or that your kids are growing up now,

and you don't have an audience 

to make up nonsense stories for? 

Maybe you think nobody will read them or like them? 

You'll never know till you try.

Just send them out