A Writer's Offering
I’ve got words dripping from my hair,
I’ve got them rippling down my chest,
And laying my head to rest.
Yet my reservoir runs dry
As the cracked desert ground
When the moment comes
To speak this thought-fountain alive.
Only in ink can it flow unimpeded.
Where the drift between mind and mouth
Has collapsed, the pen prevails.
I’ve found that a page
can hold one breath or many;
It can encompass all there is
or the lack of it
for a soul in search of companionship
rather than answers.
Like the potent magus,
I can chill the blood
Or melt the heart
With little else but the perspective
Of a flawed being.
So I become martyr to your isolation
As I offer up my salted wisdom
With tender hopes
That it will light your path.
For the human experience repeats:
A scratched record of our failures
And triumphs. I persist
knowing that each one of us
has also fallen,
and I can only lift up another
from my own two feet.