THE WRITER IN ME

writermeThe writer in me tends to be solitary,
Armed with her rucksack bag,
Her pens and her note pads,
She embarks on her own adventures;
Never too sure of what she will find,
She wonders around the globe,
Seeking new emotions, new worlds
Seeking the new in all its allure.

The writer in me tends to be solitary,
For she travels the spaces of her mind,
Attuned to the rhythms of her heart,
Listening to the calling of her soul,
Guided by the words of the Universe,
Carrying the heavy luggage of her past,
She for ever treasures the nows,
For they are both her fate and new luggage.

The writer in me tends to be solitary,
She loses herself in the labyrinth of her life,
She knows her time here is no rehearsal,
For she is there to make sense of her maze,
For she is there to share what she finds;
She knows at times some doors must be shut,
So new chapters can have a chance to be written,
So her story can begin to take shape and begin to be read.

The writer in me tends to be solitary,
She loves to loose herself with herself,
For her inspiration alights while she is there,
But rare are those times she is truly lonely,
For she paints new worlds with her words,
For she meets new faces through her chapters,
For she feels new emotions through her stories,
For she creates magic with her ink.

The writer in me tends to be solitary,
Yet, she creates her big family on her journey,
She knows love is no matter of blood,
She knows all she meets hold something for her,
She knows she too has something to offer,
She knows she is them and they are her,
She knows such meetings were meant to be,
She welcome all in her heart family.

The writer in me tends to be solitary,
Yet in secret she for ever dreams,
That one day her worlds will be read,
That one day her stories will be shared,
Yet in secret she for ever dreams,
That when she goes, she will for ever stays,
Through the bit of herself that she gave away,
So subtly yet so sharply throughout her stories.

The writer in me tends to be solitary,
But like all those who surrounds her,
She is after all also a human soul,
And there exist those odd chapters in her story,
Where she can truly feel really lonely,
When she loses touch with her worlds,
When she can no longer find her ink,
When she fears that gloomy blank story.

It is in those odd moments of her life,
She secretly wishes for her friends,
To seek the writers within them,
To gently embrace her with their worlds,
To gently cuddle her with their words,
It is in those odd moments of her life,
She seeks refuge out of her worlds,
Into the worlds of those who like her,
Like to call themselves a writer

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s