We are the ones who paint with words
thoughts and feelings soaring like birds,
horrors, dreams and things of the night
indelibly scribed for your delight

furrowed brows are forced to think
in pastel shades and jet black ink
scrawled in haste in an hour of need
raw nerves scraped until they bleed,

there is no cure or magic pill
we lost our freedom to the quill  
slicing our souls down to the bone
to leave a legacy carved in stone.

There maybe many ways
to express feelings
but the only way I know
is through the words
that I compose
pen, on paper
a heart is content
with poetry

Missing:* an angel of heaven.
Found: inside your eyes.