Plant my feet.

I think the same.  I write the same.
If it were only this.
Difficult, for sure,
But difficult with bliss.
I write the same, Because I feel the same.
These things will not seem to alter.
I keep on tripping on tired wires.
I can’t progress.  It makes me falter.
I know my cues, I know my triggers.
For the cocked barrel, I’m ever ready.
Inside my wires are singing,
But I plant my feet to be your steady.