Ink spots litter my fingers; I see the beauty of words,
In jumbled messes, scattered all over what, once, used to be a blank sheet.
They whisper to me, they drown out
What I dislike,
What I try to keep out.
I was an oblivious child, the peculiar child,
The child whose head was stuck in the clouds.
There were good days,
When I spent hours,
Writing, about nothing….
Dreaming and capturing those dreams onto my paper.
It was like painting,
Only the pencil was my brush and,
The paper was my canvas.
There were bad days,
When I came home, nothing but
Frowns on my face.
Everything drenched in a sea of tears,
I pick up the pencil, feeling the comfort of its familiar weight,
And I write,
Not as famous as Poe,
Never as witty as Emily,
But a miraculous work of art,
Treasured beyond all things.
They were my silver lining,
Those daydreams put into words,
And still, I see only the magic in them,
The eternal happiness, only writing can give me.
Every sentence I put down,
I am reborn,
Always turning back to the timeless youth of poetry.
I am proud of what I have urged myself to become,
Who knows the secrets of words,
Who thrives in the endless supply of dream essences captured in poems.