I am not a scholared writer
Nor am I a well versed poet
An English doctorate hangs not on my wall
Nor a major degree from a prominent school
I am but an element of past and present
A girl turned woman, a boy turned man
Living life through blank books
Writing literature of unsatisfied beings
Filling empty pages full of lives past loves and hates
My blood, the ink refilling calligraphy pens
Bitter tears spilling onto journals leaving letters of words for pens to trace
The writing on sheets, therapy for wounded hearts
Who I am you can find sitting on library shelves
Desperate fears like metaphors hidden between lines
Dreams on paper coming to life
Giving our minds room to feel and survive, all memories gone whether yours or mine
I am the tears we cry deep inside
The pleasures of hearts which guide sunny days
Smiles on childrens’ faces, the laughter of joy
The everyday life of misery we hide
Words coursing through veins of disappointments & regrets
This is the essence of a writer's words
Lyrics which make us cry or laugh loud and bright
The presence of lives existence forms a poet's verse
Life lived through this body and seen through these eyes
Faceless people, nameless souls
Creating the words for this writer to take flight
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