I wish I knew how to write.
I wish I knew how to spin words into stories, like thread into fine silk.
I wish I could conduct phrases like a symphony of untarnished, golden instruments,
That could play words like sweet melodies, echoing long through the reader’s mind,
Like soft whispers on a quiet night.

I wish I could craft love stories powerful enough to move mountains, or put nations to war,
Or bring a king to his knees.
The kind of stories that spark revolution and romance,
And whisper hope even in the most turbulent times.

I wish I could twist my words into a ribbon, and then twirl it like a dancer,
Tumbling and twirling and twisting across the stage,
As if driven by a force so beautiful it cannot be confined to words,
But demands the mind, the body and the soul to set it free.

I wish I could paint my words across a dark, starless, night sky,
And then watch as their bright colours lit up the world,
Surrounding the earth like a blanket,
Then greeting it like an old friend.

But I am no writer.
My words cannot capture the beauty my eyes see,
Or piece together the delicate emotions that swirl inside me.
Rather, they snap them, and break them, and they fall like shattered glass.
My words are like fire, burning strong at first,
Raging and ravishing and growing inside my imagination.
But as I reach for my pen, the hot red flames begin to die,
Their powerful tongues smouldering into cool, grey ash,
Flying away, dancing in the wind, and looking for someone to speak them,
As I could not.