Creator

I read, I read, I like the sound of words flowing all around.

I watch, I watch, people, back and forth, never walking the line that goes straight north.

I see, I see, of endless craft, Lines dancing until at last.

An image forms a story found; I close my eyes, enjoying the sound.

I think, I think, of puppet strings wrapped around my fingers, and I look right down, and I think I’ve found someone that’s just my own.

I speak, I speak of endless worlds dancing around my very own words.

I make, I make in my inner mind all these things wonderfully combined.

Fuzzy sunsets, a world all mine, flower dances never more fine, just in my reach.

I giggle a little, I laugh a lot, I smile a little, and again with all I’ve got.

I allow myself to wander, the cover of my book a reader smiling as they read near a nice cold brook.

I allow myself to envision a pitcher in my hand, it’s made with a style, a skill that I could never plan.

But as I steer at a page, a screen, or an empty stage, I can’t think or smile, and this goes on for quite a while.

I put a word or a line down before me, but it’s far from fine.

It’s not what I read, It’s not what I watch, it’s not what I see, and it’s far less organised than any old watch.

The image is there deep in my brain, but it seems to have ran for fear of the rain.

But I keep working word by word, sketch by sketch, I find a retheme, I find a song, and I find an image.

It’s not the old one framed in sparkling gold, but in the end, I will keep my goal.

Maybe one day, another will read my work, another will see my work, and another will make their own work, and this will all repeat.