My emotions are the true poets...
The unsung heroes that give many others understanding -
The heroes that valiantly slay their feelings of alienation.
My thoughts and feelings narrate my poems...
Not I.
They own the stories,
Not I...
They transform my words from the words of a sixteen year old into...
Art
And goosebump-evoking music to the lonely.
They are the ones that illustrate all the imagery,
Not I...
They eloquently wield the paint brush and utilize each bristle to delineate beauty that only the worthy will perceive.
My fears and anxieties -
They are the ink...
The ink that runs out
And magically comes back...
The ink that gives me reason to write
When it flows and gushes...
Ebbs and spills
Onto receptive lakes of paper.
It is the ink that runs out
That drips... Until nothing's left -
But before emptiness
It looks like a thin thread
As it makes its way to paper...
A thin thread of hope that's futile -
And makes some of my words
Empty.... Worthless.. And un-poetic.
YOU ARE READING
Writer's Whispers
PoetryIt's only at night that you hear the faint whispers of the writer's pen trailing paper. [COMPLETED]
