I hold a poem in my palms
And stare at the tiny letters on the page
The words lift from the thin white sheet and float ahead of me
Circling around me like a flutter of butterflies
The words drop back into the page
And i'm left feeling moved
And suddenly I want to be as polished as the words on that thin white sheet
So I pick up my quill, and began my own wonder
The ink rolls on the page
Until my hand stiffens
And my mind drifts
And my pen glides on the thin white sheet all alone
Its comes naturally
Like a moth to a flame
So I write and I write
From sunrise to sunset
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 7:22 PM UTC
I hold a poem in my palms
And stare at the tiny letters on the page
The words lift from the thin white sheet and float ahead of me
Circling around me like a flutter of butterflies
The words drop back into the page
And i'm left feeling moved
And suddenly I want to be as polished as the words on that thin white sheet
So I pick up my quill, and began my own wonder
The ink rolls on the page
Until my hand stiffens
And my mind drifts
And my pen glides on the thin white sheet all alone
Its comes naturally
Like a moth to a flame
So I write and I write
From sunrise to sunset