Let Me Introduce Myself, I’m your Ghostwriter
I watch you write and have so much I want to say
Good evening lovely lady
You’ve no idea who I am,
I’ve watched you every day
You could say I’m a fan.
***
I watch as you wrestle
With painful emotions,
You refuse to give up
In awe of your devotion.
***
Writing helps you deal
With your random thoughts,
If it comes to nothing
You will happily abort.
***
I may do more than watch
When you are at a loss,
A word here or there
An exemplary idea I’ll toss.
***
Do you feel me here at all
Constantly beside you,
Putting pen to paper
Of feelings long overdue.
***
On more than one occasion
I’ve written the entire piece,
On that odd occurrence
The words exist on release.
***
You are shocked at the time
Of how easy that was to write,
You didn’t seem to even think
Yet your words flow in delight.
***
Did you ever really wonder
If you’d had a helping hand,
Instantly the perfect word
Penned on the page unplanned.
***
You read the words back
And it’s like they’re brand new,
Did they come from your pen
Doesn’t feel like it was you.
***
No my love, I am right here
Helping you on the side,
I’m your real ghostwriter
Coming along for the ride.
***
I had hoped you’d notice
That I’ve been here before,
I’ve knocked, I’ve yelled out
Almost beaten down the door.
***
So Colleen, let me say hello
And introduce myself to you,
I’m your friendly ghostwriter
To help your words ring true.
***
Call on me at any given time
I’ll spout the words you need,
To allow your clogged thoughts
To be expressed and set free.
*****************************
If you liked my writing, please click on the small heart underneath, near my name. Or send me a tip and let me know you enjoyed it.
****
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Originally posted on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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