To write such linguistic phrases,
it must be a gift.
It must be something one delights in,
takes pride in.
Works written from the soul,
or possibly derived from the stars,
even taken from the depths of the sea,
or the tales of the past.
A letter addressed to a son, a wife,
a man dressed in his best,
a woman with her legs spread wide,
just to provide for her only daughter,
the girl next door,
the depressed teenage boy,
the proprietor of a wealthy business,
the starving young adult in Africa who lacks everything but determination to bring prosperity to his village.
The art form of writing is not only for the selected few,
it is for anyone and everyone that can hear its cries from the author,
the way the poet is choking on every word,
every written word they wrote because their heart told them so.
And the author writes for all people,
because everyone deserves a chance to find solstice in a written word,
a written word that can touch a million people in a million ways.
