The moment I sit down to write,
I sweep everything else mundane to the rear end of my mind.
Dashing to my wooden desk,
Littered with paintbrush bristles and a mess of star shaped sequins,
I grapple the nearest pencil.
I tear apart an ivory hued paper,
With soft blue stripes from my school notepad,
And gape in awe at the miracles of the two combined.
With empty lines and a sharpened pencil clenched in my palm,
I’m floating amongst a sea of possibilities.
Magic occurs when the pencil is lost in the thick of its words,
And the paper unleashing delightful sighs as it peers at the beauty of messily handwritten art.
I’m left speechless with wonder at the power of the tip of a pencil,
Words don’t fail when I unchain my my mind and let it flood on paper.
I pour out my heart,
That takes bravery to do,
It’s less painful on paper.
It drenches with the contents spilled from my spirit,
The paper weeps hearing all my woes and aims in life,
But it vows for it all to remain an unknown story.
It silently listens to my intellect and wonders avidly when I’ll treat the empty lines with more of my wisdom.
I’m composing words that dance and sing off my tongue,
Pouring out the hundreds of art canvases trapped my mind,
The expressive metaphors and all the bedazzling imagery,
That paint my repressed emotions,
And everything between the lines.
I write to help me cope,
To touch the world in a different light,
And make me trust that sunshine exists.
I write to untie art wherever possible,
And cherish the written magic.