Like a painter with a fresh canvas
Oils waiting and brushes ready
A writer uses words to convey,
The feeling of a spring day and the heartache of a lover gone away.
Stripping the feeling to write what is overflowing inside,
A writer writes.
On a later day if they chance upon their work they read what once was said
An emptier version of themselves now that the feelings are dead,
The words are hollow until they read the stains,
What wasn't said and left for imagination's sake.
To write and never know if you'll feel the same,
A hollow pursuit to tether a writer in place.
A reader becomes what the writer said and more importantly didn't say
They feel as the writer once did,
Passively undertaking words from another's heart.
A writer dies a little in each write but come the day when the body goes,
They come to life.