I am not a poet
Or a songstress
Or an artist.
My words do not move mountains.
My voice cannot soothe souls to sleep
And my hands have never carved
Anything out of nothing.
But my one distraction,
Who takes my placid mind
And fills it with sweet honey drops
Of color, elusive light,
Takes my words,
And my voice,
And my pastels,
And creates.
He is not an author
Or a composer
Or a Monet-Picasso-Van Gogh
But he guides
Writes
Sings
Sketches
Thoughts like rain and rainbows
Wings and White
In every corner of my teeming mind.
And I can only
Inadequately
Author
Hum
Draw
Create
Of that which is my muse.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I am not a poet
Or a songstress
Or an artist.
My words do not move mountains.
My voice cannot soothe souls to sleep
And my hands have never carved
Anything out of nothing.
But my one distraction,
Who takes my placid mind
And fills it with sweet honey drops
Of color, elusive light,
Takes my words,
And my voice,
And my pastels,
And creates.
He is not an author
Or a composer
Or a Monet-Picasso-Van Gogh
But he guides
Writes
Sings
Sketches
Thoughts like rain and rainbows
Wings and White
In every corner of my teeming mind.
And I can only
Inadequately
Author
Hum
Draw
Create
Of that which is my muse.