Ink

A bit random and quick, but I think it's good.

One hundred thousand stories have been written.
Half of them never see the light of day.
Then why? Why write such things?
For it is what the heart brings.

This is how the written words dance.
Some show the warm love of others
Some show the cold hate of brothers
All show the soul of the hand that wrote. 

They can mean nothing to everyone.
Ignored and abandoned as the dust gathers.
Millions of other texts take it's place.
But this one is written by his hand.

Every hand that paints the blue frown
or that paints the smiling sun.
Can twist the world of ink in his own way.
Can cut the chains of realistic limitation.

We write, because we can.
We write, because we are.
We write, because it is.
I write because it is me.

Reviews

[Ry]

A writer's words mean little to anyone other than he who wrote them. I like to think of the words that I write as friends. I'll start my day and have just a phrase stuck in my head all day. Eventually, I get on here and type it. From there, the rest just flows out, and then the strange words I had in my head all day are strangers any more.

[emmah]

wow - what an amazingly divine poem this is!!! the power of the written word is unparalleled - there is nothing else that transcends time and generations and boundaries and race and religion and states and countries like the written word - there is always a piece of the poet that lives and breathes in their words - and what a mesmerizing and exquisite piece you have here! so much power and so much depth!!

'some show the warm love of others
some show the cold hate of brothers'

my favorite lines!! the entire poem is stunning!!

[...]

. oh, you are a genius! ... and you write like one ... this is my song ... it's so anthemic ... it resounds and it echoes ... these words are crystals of knowing ... of being ... your pursuit of excellence is awe-inspiring ... and your words ... i commit to memory ...