I Am a Writer
These words upon this page
colored with the black ink of night
hardly mean anything to anyone,
well,l anyone but me.
It's like the paper becomes my body
the pen becomes my blood and tears
the very beat of my heart
is the meter that it goes.
I paint in my words,
something a painter never can capture
something far deeper inside
where no one else can go.
The pen is like a blade
slicing open all these memories
sinking into a rhythm of something alive
what am I creating?
Pencil is to soft, and can't make it through
Pen is strong, bold, and swift,
makes it easier to breath at the end
when finally it is done.
Would you call me a writer
for the prose by my hand?
Well what else could you label me,
for define me and you ruin me.
For freedom is where my writing thrives
The simple tools to strengthen me
Pen and paper such simple words,
yet strong enough for me, for I am a writer...
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
