I pull down my worn thesaurus, turn the notebook to an empty, curious page
click and unclick my pen
5 or 6 times
as if to click some inspiration into my searching, wandering brain
some days I grow frustrated with
my inability to coherently express
some days I grow content with
the effortless ebb and flow of words
at times, the paper is my ally and friend
at others, it is my enemy, taunting me with dangling strings of eloquence
and just when my hopeful fingertips brush the ends, they are quickly snatched back
I revel in the freedom, the liberty, yet I am also imprisoned within the lines, trapped
into the ink, and woven into the paper
a prisoner with absolutely no desire to escape
I believe the ending of a piece of writing to be the most important part; the last thing
the reader sees
it must be powerful, thought-provoking, insightful
one must never ever leave it
unfinished, and incomplete
it would not be right to just….
trail off
Let the child in you talk!
If you don’t have a pen,
Offer him/her a chalk.
Sit down and let it all rain.
The treasures you will find,
Are costless… and unique.
All hidden in the mind,
Waiting for your time to unclick.
Simple words will define,
Life and more in color.
Listen, hear, feel the sign,
A child is his/her own tailor.
Free spirit, no enclave,
The child in you is alive.
Surfing your moods on a wave,
Gathering shells as he/she dives.
I tell you as I remind myself,
Not to forget this little child.
Once we put him/her on the shelf,
Everything becomes wild!