The Writer

Creation is not a right,

Not a power or a privilege,

A gift, given freely and often,

For those who can wield its power.

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To make something from nothing,

It’s a power reserved for the gods,

Yet stories are born by human hands,

Built from ink and blood soaked into a page.

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Empty spaces and wandering thoughts,

The seeds of inspiration blossom,

Growing over time into tales not told,

Waiting for a witness to give them life.

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The Writer’s soul feeds on stories,

An escape from the tangible,

Highways into the imagination,

And roads untraveled.

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Pay no mind to the shadows,

The ones that doubt your power,

They will soon have a role to play,

In a story only you can tell.

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The Writer must forge on,

The story will continue,

Unimpeded by your doubt,

And unburdened by your hate.

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The writer conceives,

He brandishes the pen,

He puts pen to paper,

And worlds are born.

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You thought you were the hero,

That you were righteous in this tale,

But you are not The Writer,

I am.