The Writer

(for writer poem) (Yeah!)
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Writings along the walls

Writings along the roads

Words pouring out of the people around her

Letters simply buzzing by in the air

Nobody saw them

Except for one

The one called

“The Writer”

The Writer took these words

And put them onto paper

She took them

Stroked them

Took care of them

And they took care of her in return

Like a crazy cat lady

She had thousands of them

Each of them she knew by name

The people of the town

Knew not of these words

They saw the air around them

They saw bees buzzing

Saw the trees swaying

But words never spoke to them

The words didn’t speak to anyone except for The Writer

For the Writer they knew

And the words she knew

And as the years went by

The words grew attached to her

The words loved her so much

That day by day

They started showing her their world

World’s full of amazing colors

Worlds filled to the brim with anything you could think of

World’s that came from her heart

Worlds called


Her own world

A world that was simply black and white

A world filled to the brim with black ink and white paper

But no story

People came and went around her

What were they doing?

Smog filled skies

Trees fading from the world

Life losing its grip on humanity

All except the one called “The Writer”

For The Writer knew what to do

For she had lived among the words her whole life

Living in a world filled with something these black and white people didn’t know

Something that only the words could show her

Bright red ink splattered on her

And it weaved its way into her heart

It was something truly beautiful

It was “Love”

The ink she spoke of wasn’t only black and white

Not the kind only the village people spoke of

They were full of greens and blues

With specks of yellow and orange

And hues of pinks and purples

They danced around in her mind

Softly she dipped her pen into the bottle

And told of her stories

Of adventures the world had never known about

Of sights that even the village travelers could never tell about

Children came and crowded around

Listening to her stories

Of tiny creatures that granted wishes

Of large beasts that captured dreams

And each time she told them

The world around her started becoming more enveloped by her color

Trees had splotches of green

Hues of blue were entangling the wisps of sky still left

The children carried The Writer’s stories far

And told of them throughout the generations

Though they changed throughout the years

Still The Writer’s words rang true

Until the world was covered in ink

Bright, colorful ink

You see her words in everything today

From the lights of dusk

To the shadows of dawn

They are within all of us

And even now

The Writer sits in her chair

Writing her words on paper

Reaching for her rainbow-colored inkwell

The scratching of her pen on paper

Is like no other

It sings of glorious songs

It whispers of mysterious secrets

It dances to the rhythm of memories

Flowing deeply into her veins

Stretching far to reach our own

Plip, plop goes the ink


Splattering the world in its messy ways

For what is a perfect world?

But a world with no color

Yet nobody cared

The people lived their lives

With only the things they saw in front of them

They heard voices

They saw a world

Barren and void of a painter’s brush

Days came with the same stories

Except for when the one they called

“The Writer”

Came into the plain and simple town

A mystery to all

But to writer them self

For they too know the way

As her children

We eagerly take care of her writing

Making sure the script is just right

Each different in their own unique ways

For the ink is different for all

For the words it shows is special to each and everyone

And patiently we wait

In the dawn of the morning

To the dusk of night

Eagerly pouring out our heart into the pages

Patiently waiting for the readers to read it

For that is the way of a writer


One thought on “The Writer

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