A painting in ink.
Words spun from the imagination,
And drawn by the hand.
Nothing compares to the art of creation.
The creation of words, pulled from the heart.
Never be afraid,
To say what you think.
Mean what you say,
Say what you mean.
I am a writer
Who loves to create.
Whose favorite canvas,
Is eight and a half
By eleven inches long.
Whose choice media,
Comes in blue and in black,
And spills from a fountain,
Or a rolling ball-point.
The rhythm of words,
The lilt of the tongue,
Are beautiful dancers,
To the beat of the right drum.
Be bold in your music,
and strong in your stroke,
The image is beautiful
To any ear that cares to look.
I am a writer
Who loves to create.
Whose favorite canvas,
Is eight and a half
By eleven inches long.
By eleven inches long.
Whose choice media,
Comes in blue and in black,
And spills from a fountain,
Or a rolling ball-point.
This is a great poem. I like how you compared your pen to the media and your paper to your canvas for creation.
ReplyDeleteThis was a great. I enjoyed your use of rhythm and flow throughout the poem.
ReplyDeleteGreat poem, Mary Beth! The painting / page metaphor works really well.
ReplyDelete