Writing

WRITING

Writing to me is not unlike makeup to a clown
I hide from reality with every word written down
Ink is the war paint smeared upon the face of my facade
I wear it as a warrior into battle, fearing no one but God
The parchment is my independence, a beautiful azure sky
Even as my heart is earth bound, my spirit can still fly
My thoughts are often stranded in a desert of solitude and despair
Bound there by fear with the ability to escape, but not the courage to dare
Each stroke of the pen, like an oar, pushes my vessel further out to sea
It’s the only time I can escape the anguish that anchors me
In my head is a library bursting with unwritten books on every shelf
I’ll write them all before I die, at least that is what I keep telling myself
My gift is my passion, but also my curse, I hide my sorrow with a quick wit
One day, time like rain on a fire, will finally smother it
My writings let me be the little boy who once went on a nickel pony ride
They are the only way I know how to share who I really am inside