Writer

Well you see I used to be a writer,

A mundane master of words and despair,

With pen and ink I cast my spells,

On a reader's mind when darkness calls,

Spells of truth hidden in dark beauty,

A secret world untouched,

With mythical creatures with unseen features,

Playing underneath the evergreen trees,

With feathers and furs and claws they run happily,

Well you see I used to be a writer,

A mundane master of words,

Controlling my own worlds,

Some of darkness and pain,

Some of light hearted love,

Some of heartaches and headaches,

And some are caffeine fueled daydreams,

You see I am a writer,

Chained to my craft,

Held captive by thoughts needing release,

Ink begging to be written,

Words aching to be seen,

You see I used to be a writer of future dreams and past mistakes,

Now I am a writer,

Holding my pen,

Holding my breath,

Writing of happenings present,

Magic woods under the purple skies,

Ocean grey clouds with red lining,

The sweet scent of pine needles,

The soft chirp of blue birds,

That moment held captive,

Sunset a perfect picture,

Set in words,

You see I am a writer,

A master of words,

A master of my craft,

Chained to paper by an ever gliding pen,

Always moving with every new thought,

With each stroke,

With each word,

I am a master,

Chained to my passion,

Siting and working with the fire Deep inside,

Firelit shadows cast on wooden walls,

The scent of oak burning and coffee brewing,

Cold air seeping in under the doors,

A Winter's night,

A perfect picture,

Brought to life by words,

You see I used to be a writer,

A mundane master of words,

Now I am a writer with a touch of fire,

A master of my craft,

A master of worlds.