The Writer

This isn't your story. It's mine.

Image: Curated Lifestyle via Unsplash+

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Creation is not a right,
not a power or a privilege,
a gift, given often and freely,
to those who can wield its power.

To make something from nothing,
a power reserved only for gods.
Yet stories are born by human hands,
from ink and blood soaked into a page.

Empty spaces and wandering thoughts,
The seeds of inspiration blossom.
Growing into tales yet untold,
waiting for witnesses to give them life.

The Writer’s soul feeds on stories,
an escape from the tangible.
Highways into the imagination,
and roads not yet traveled.

Pay no mind to the shadows.
The ones that doubt your power.
They will soon have a role to play,
in a story only you can tell.

The Writer must forge on,
the story will continue.
Unimpeded by your doubt,
and unburdened by your hate.

I catch a glimpse of her,
My golden muse, shining bright.
Source of all inspiration,
and the light of my life.

Her eyes seek the unknown.
Her lips speak beautiful secrets.
She hears Gaia’s heartbeat,
And passes the knowledge to me.

Inspiration flows outward.
Creativity burns from within.
The story takes a breath,
and my work can finally begin.

The writer conceives.
They brandish the pen.
They put the pen to paper,
and worlds are born.

I feel your eyes on me.
Hiding in the darkness.
Seething with jealousy.
Burning with spite.

You thought you were the hero.
That you were righteous in this tale,
But you are not the Writer.
I am.

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Thanks for reading! Here’s Your Musical Pairing

Listen to this after reading, like pairing a glass of wine with dinner.