As I set out to write, the ink spills,
Twisting and twirling from the end of my quill,
It forms the shape of the moods in my soul,
And captures the aura of my being as a whole.
As my hand brushes over that piece of paper,
The words flow out and seem to prosper,
And incoherently begin to make a world of sense,
Heaps of feelings, in mere words condense.
When the things around me seem too dull,
And in things around me, no allure will yodel
It slithers and forms some stories untold,
Whereto worlds of fallacies unfold.
And sometimes it spills the musings of my heart,
The things as I see them, when I put them apart,
About my dreams and faith and the verve I wish,
About my darkest mysteries and deepest anguish.
And when I run out of things to say,
In verse it binds my words going astray,
To make it into a song of hope and misery,
And tucks it away to someday sing it back to me.
1 comment:
As the feelings in the poem go, the words are also in a flow.
Really nice work. :)
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