My pen is like a resounding cymbal;
its loud noise ringing fills the atmosphere in my head.
The words become like waterfalls,
pouring in and out of my mind when I think of the compelling beauty of life, or simply the admiration of stars gazing at each other as their silhouette of light woes mankind to sleep at night and my blood stream inevitably filled with poetry, I become a night owl.… The letters begin making up an impregnation of words…
They grow tremendously in my mind as if one were to start a huge fire, I’m at it again,
a spark erupts,
quickening impulse,
quickening in thoughts of the life before and after me,
the life of others,
the joy and pain of living,
those whose last breaths have left legacy on earth and those unknown yet close to home.
The seasons, the months, play in my head.
The pen doesn’t hesitate,
it never does.
It speaks from the roots and stems of the heart.
At the end of the day all that matters is the God-given life of writing and most importantly,
the words that matter to you and me.