I am a writer

Yet, I do not write the words, for they write me.

I know not from whence they come, only that they beckon and possess me.

I do not guess, or grasp for their mysterious content.

They are branded on my soul.

And for what purpose they are meant? For me to release, Is the final goal.

To live or die, it matters not, I have no peace.

Until through their human conduit (me) they finally speak, the sweet release.

Of what, you ask, of life say they.

Of golden light or brooding darkness. Of heaven, of hell, of all the glorious in between.

NO matter what, what subject matter, it all means… Something.

Words, used with force to glean the truth.

Not half-wit mocking, but fully formed and talking truth.

To jump from the page with vibrancy, they must scream and shout.

They must be about, they must have worth.

A story to shake, to scare, to inspire. To light the page, from blank canvas to create fire.

These words must have purpose.

To fail is to do less.

For after our lives are done, our words endure and carry on.

They are the faceless bard that continues the story of me, of you.

Brave and foolish,the writer, with pen in hand, tis what we must do