My words fall like autumn leaves,
each a fragment of my life,
and filled with stories.
Stories of heroes and battles,
of love and loss,
of unknown paths and endless journeys.
They twirl and flitter in the wind,
with my sweat and tears,
and the blood that I bleed,
tainting the ink.
Sometimes, I think I wield the ink and pen,
that I can collect all these leaves in a notebook
and bind them to my soul.
I want to collect these leaves
and hoard them like diamonds,
showing them off through my muse.
Until they shatter,
forming glittery dust
because my voice is full of rust.
Instead of the wielder, I'm the dragon.
The one who burns memories
and smokes out enemies,
while begging for my stories to be heard.
My lips form careless whispers;
I want people to know where I've been,
what I've done,
who I've met.
If only people would listen,
to the whispers and knowledge,
my soul bears without the promise of ink.
I am no mage,
yet without the ink and the blood that stain the page,
I think I could be.
With my words in the wind,
and the presence of eager ears,
I can pass my lessons along through a throng,
making me feel like I belong.
No assigned role,
no ink staining my hands
or fire burning my skin.
Just me and the words my lips form.
