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Cody Haag Mar 2016
My words peep through
The veil of literature,
Like a cautious creature
With wary eyes.

My words, they swim,
Through these oceans of thought,
Darting swiftly with fear
That they might be preyed upon.

My words often fly through the sky,
Where creative feelings linger high,
But they hide among the clouds
So that they will not be grounded.

My words, I try to use them masterfully
So that I will not be quieted but rather heard.
Still, I must make sure I contribute my message,
No matter how I deliver it.
To be free would be fine

But then we write a line

And we are tied to ink

As babies are by milk

Images dance behind eyelids

And words are formed, onto paper they slid

Slid through the ink to the nib of the pen

Not knowing when images and words are unbound again.
Copyright © JLB
11/12/2015
16:18 GMT
LifeBeauty13 Sep 2015
Longing to be a Writer,
a wordsmith of the spirit,
the possibility within my soul,
can I see the ability to really do it.
Aching to grow to become more,
yet so afraid to open my door,
Others will see and make their choice,
Whether or not to hear my voice.
The Wordsmith Aug 2015
Reality is treacherous.
Its conformity is maddening, and the rules insanely sane,
The walls of uniformity are clouded with illusions that seem delusional,
And freedom and constrictions seem one and the same,
I am a dreamer, yet I fancy myself a creator,
I build worlds from the shards of a life that lacks flavor,
I prefer the freedom of love, hope and death,
And I crave the obsession of life and birth,
I am a dreamer, and so a world of facts and truths I shun,
I am a dreamer, a dying race, under the setting sun.
But the optimism of a dreamer is maddening,
Filled with hopes and dreams that are inherently saddening,
I am a wordsmith, a romantic and some might say a visionary,
Creating universes and queens from the extraordinary,
I am a romantic, and I desire the audience of the stars,
I am a romantic, and carved on the walls of my heart are a million scars.
I am a wordsmith, building walls from worlds torn at the seams,
I am a dreamer, fleeing from the banality of life through my dreams.
The Wordsmith Jul 2015
He was born with a builder's hands,
But has a poet's heart,
In reality he is a slave,
But in his mind he is free,
The shackles, they bind him to these lands,
They exist, but they are not for us to see,
For they are mental constraints, and they cannot be shaken loose.
But there is freedom in all things, even in slavery,
We cannot see this though. He can.
He's different from us. Where we see endings and walls, he sees milestones,
Who is this man, who will wait for the night, till the cold claims his bones?
Who is this man, who prefers the night to the day for it bears the audience of the stars?
Who is this man, who knows not the art of speech, but makes men cry with his words?
Who is this man, who gazes upon a girl and sees not a girl, but a universe and perfection?
Who is this smith who craft's blades strong but forges hearts adamantine?
He is a wordsmith.
Words spun at her mercy
like flowers around vines,
They longed to be
pieced together,
Dovetailed into a crown
that would adorn her,
embellishing,
augmenting her.
Words flowed like rivelets
in the valley of her conscience.
She befriended them.
Basked in their sheer beauty.
She was the enchantress.
Her words,
Magic!
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