Chatterbox: Inkwell

Ode to writing

On a warm summer night or a cold winter day,

you are the one who makes me stay.

A silent assassin, a sleeping boar,

the light in the moor, the barely open door

the worlds never seen before.

Even the sweeping trees

bend their knees 

as you fly by.

Your stories may be a bit gorey,

but they still are like home.

Death standing still beneath the trees

listening to your symphony

of words.

Others use words to hurt, to harm,

you instaid take me under a curved arm

and show me the beauty of the world,

your world.

WIth each passing page insparation fills my mind,

I want to be like you.

So I pick up that pen, 

open the word document,

and get to work.

My work is not good, not great, not beautiful.

It is not like you at all.

But I will still try to replicate that beauty, 

through the rest of my days I will.

Words fill my soul, my heart, my mind with joy.

One day it will be just screens,

no more words, no more books.

No more pages rustling in the gentle wind

calling for you to read them.

No more words dancing on the page,

as you see them through teary eyes.

Until then, 

I will enjoy my words, my pages, my writing.

There are words waiting 

to be written and read and understood and seen.

Inside every soul they wait for release.

Maybe it’s time I let some of mine out. 

~~~

This is an Ode that I wrote fro a language arts assignment and I wanted to get you guys' opinion on it.