We are writers,
select people who
delight in the pen
and love combining
words and letters
to make an article
we dreamt of
long ago or not
long ago at all.
We are not normal people,
yet we are.
We eat, breathe
and play games,
but record how
these experiences
impact us.
We pilfor in the
world around us by
touching and savoring
the colors of the sky
and breathing in the mixed
fragrance of the upturned dirt
and rainclouds approaching,
all the while
jotting notes in a journal
or anything that
reflects ink or charcoal
for all the marvelous
ideas swirling
in our heads.
We have the ideas;
crackling leaves
hastily flying
in an avalanche of others,
demanding every day
for their extraordinary
usage to come,
only to be replaced
by multiple others.
We are the people
who never let the leaves
escape just to be smashed
and ashamed into a thousand
uncountable fragments.
We snap awake
during the disagreeable
hours of the night
just to write a phrase or two,
maybe even three or thirty nine
spacious expressions
that yearn to
hold a position on paper
in any practicable way.
We delight in details;
the crusty state of
once evergreen grass,
the ludicrous bird
that releases bodily
functions on our shoulders,
and the thrashing of
our intricate hearts after
our ears perceived
a robust, powerful wolf
howling ferociously.
We tuck away the
images and feelings
in the rolls of
our delicate brains
to use in the
exemplary event.
We are not
just bodies.
We are writers,
select people who
delight in the pen
and love combining
words and letters
to make an article
we dreamt of
long ago or not
long ago at all.