Realizing all along,his hand just wrote the most beautiful,deepest feeling,an emotion of everlasting preportion of lifes,as he sees it through his eyes.If your life suddenly appeared
within the ink blot,and you finally realize the words spoken can set you free,do you accept it,or row ia all away.We each have a tale,a story of love,honor,and life.Hatred,and of death.
I may stand alone,or with many,but, down through the hands of time.William Shakespere.A poet before his time.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,shot us with his keenly arrow.Edgar Allen Poe gave the raven,and so many others.They travelled,to the ends of the world,and became their own story.For me,and so many others,who follows the pen.of the great ones,If comes so easily.
I have set,and ponder,my life would be a great story ever told,but,only for me to read.My pen writes,my thoughts travels,yet I am at peace.
I truly believe,a pen in hand,a whisper,upon a tablet,is a gift from god.It is an emotion,a feeling,a mere inling concept,a desire.A need to express,one true innerself.
