The almost whispering scratch
Of your pen upon a paper
As you feel creativity's beckoning
Calls and calms the muse.
There have been others
So volatile, so crass
And everything made with them in mind
Resembled.
But you who calms my Muse,
The phrases flow like water
And the letters dance like whispers of wind.
Through your spark
Does my own creativity wonder
And take flight.
Ever-present beauty lives in what you create
And every word is a melody
The silent sound of the breath in your lungs
Begets a kind of sanity.
There have been others
And all that was made for them
Is ravaged by the hands of madness
But you who calms my muse
Contents my soul's cry
And allows my creative heart to fly.
In the purest sense of inspiration,
In the most surreal, ethereality of existence
Words respond and gravitate to the paper
Liberating themselves in sentences.
There have been others
And then there is you
And there will be others
But then, there is you
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
The almost whispering scratch
Of your pen upon a paper
As you feel creativity's beckoning
Calls and calms the muse.
There have been others
So volatile, so crass
And everything made with them in mind
Resembled.
But you who calms my Muse,
The phrases flow like water
And the letters dance like whispers of wind.
Through your spark
Does my own creativity wonder
And take flight.
Ever-present beauty lives in what you create
And every word is a melody
The silent sound of the breath in your lungs
Begets a kind of sanity.
There have been others
And all that was made for them
Is ravaged by the hands of madness
But you who calms my muse
Contents my soul's cry
And allows my creative heart to fly.
In the purest sense of inspiration,
In the most surreal, ethereality of existence
Words respond and gravitate to the paper
Liberating themselves in sentences.
There have been others
And then there is you
And there will be others
But then, there is you
