poem about writing
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I go through paper Like it grows on trees And I live in a forest. Putting pen to the page Is grounding in a way Typing is not. Paper grants the freedom To organize my thoughts Beyond the bounds Of pixels and bytes.
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I’ve long suspected that I’d never live by The word. The pen is not the sword that cuts My path. It hangs on the wall as mere decoration Because I lack what it takes to Become The warrior poet
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A poem a day,Some therapists say,Holds darkness at bay,And keeps madness delayed. A poem a day,The readers will say,helps the soul to conveywhat it’s hidden away. But, A poem a day,The writers all say,May keep the muses in sway,But won’t keep the bills paid.
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I take the half-filled journal from my bedside; The leather cover is warm in my hands. The broken spine falls open on the table, displaying parchment pages the color of sand. My quill tip pen is newly filled after several month of sparing use. It hovers over the empty pages as I await my writing
Bringing Mae Flowers 