In my ways this pen
has always found a reason
to find itself in between
my hands.
Sometimes I take the time
to ask if this is it,
when truth rushes in
to fill my spirit as ink swirls
upon my skin.
I am not afraid of storms that breathe
into this poetry I write,
because all its winds lead me
to those places,
where I can feel.
Does a constant need
bring excitement
leaving us sailing away on songs
lying at the bottom of our hearts?
Is this the place
we roam?
A place where memories keep hoping
we will let them in
as they surround the years
rising to sing in a key
our voices never meant to sing again.
Do not tell me I break the rules
when I try and turn
the wheel of fate.
You know I will always be the one,
trying to fill the empty air
with song.
But tell me,
how does one close up emptiness
when it’s been there so long
even the world
thinks it’s part of the air
they breathe?
In my ways this pen wakes me,
gives me back my heart.
Delighted,
I find myself wondering
if I should sign my name,
or pour this emptiness I filled,
back into my pen
and part.
A poem about the decision we as writers make as to whether to scrap or share a piece of our souls..........our work.