Writer

That wondrous night
Seated at a desk made up of a dead tree,
Its reddish brown corpse smoothed into a
Gleaming, marbled surface
That pivotal night
Before an untouched page of crisp, captivating, beautiful paper,
Running your hand over the sleek sheet which breathed the thunderous melody of
Unwritten stories, hopes, and dreams
The oily black pen which slept beside it
Mumbling in its repose of
Potential and purpose
Silently pleading
To be your muse
Tempting your hand to
Scoop it up and begin to
Bring those unvoiced, mysterious thoughts
Into the visible world
In your passionate scrawl
That night in which you learned
To place your soul on paper
How to change that frantic flow of
Contemplation
Into a unique and artistic collection of words
Each of which you felt
Personally and deeply within
That night in which
Words became your master
They consumed you, your every thought
That night in which Reflection
became your companion on
A journey of sight, sound, touch, taste, and scent
That night in which you embarked on the river to
A life in which you
Truly saw the world for what it was
All its bits and pieces, the roads taken by many and by few, the horrid and the whimsical
You captured it all in your mind,
Tethered it to paper and
Locked all that knowledge into a leather bound journal
The night in which you
Became a
Writer

-Megan M. Phillips

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