Who is this writer,
what makes her tick?
What heats her blood;
makes it run carmine, thick?
What causes stir deeply,
where emotions run wild
what sickens her
to the core,
of her inner child?
What fills her, what warms her…
when ugly prevails?
What is the scent
that can fill
the most stagnant,
windless sails?
Why must she write?
What does she have to say,
that she must free from fingertips
pressing, potent words
imparted, permission-less
unto your day?
Tag Archives: Writing
True Art
When a writer is true to the artist’s form
It’s not rare to illicit critique and scorn
When a writer divulges unedited prose,
It often lacks beauty like an unscented rose
When a writer holds back words underlying the dream
What is finally unleashed is an inaudible scream
If she edits her piece like her dress before church
it may haunt uninvited, like a predators’ lurch
