Confessions of a Writer


The silence is broken.

.

With pen in hand,

I remember once more

The beauty found inside

A simple flow of words.

.

The graceful art of reaching deep

Into the very core of my soul

And allowing it to take form.

A creation of ink and heart,

Of sorrows and joys,

A declaration of everything I am

And will never forget or let go.

.

My body holds the chamber,

While my spirit leaks out,

Beyond this paper,

Beyond its literary boundaries,

To touch not only myself,

But those who seek its truth.

.

It is this truth that I had forgotten,

Having abandoned its calling for years it seems.

But not anymore; not ever.

It is my blood, my life,

And I must promise to always see it through.