On Writing

~*~*~

Volatile, like ethanol,
My thoughts evaporate,
One after another,
Until the mind finds,
Itself drunken on words,
Flowing endlessly from,
The depths of my imagination.

Worlds unknown, borrowed,
From the world we live in,
Encumbered by the limitations,
Of all we see and believe,
Yet still the surreal voices,
Echoing from written verse,
Seem so strange to hear.

Visions of our deepest fears,
Darkness and chaos,
Come together to spread,
Terror in our hearts,
Only to be shattered
By heroes unheard of,
To melt all that makes us afraid.

Like an artist without a brush,
Always painting pictures,
From the depths of the soul,
With colors unknown,
But felt in every stroke,
Of the pen we dearly hold,
As the heart bleeds.

The song of the heart,
Escapes as barely a whisper,
Floating through the air,
Like a fragrant perfume,
Sweet and uplifting,
Touching all but the person,
For whom it was sung.

These feelings in my heart,
Rarely spoken of,
Yet always written about,
Bring into solid form,
My true inner self,
More realistically than,
The words left unspoken.

What am I without my muse;
Without the pen in my hand,
And thoughts wild in my mind;
Without empty words,
Building so much meaning;
Without momentary feelings,
Bringing life permanence?

I would be Nothing,
But the sweet fragrance,
Of wild strawberries,
Floating through the air,
Untouched, unfelt, unheard.
Yet always present,
Silently hidden.

~*~*~