On writing

I’m nothing but words,

Letters strung together.

I imagine the world too,

Only from you, I differ.

I soak gallons each day,

From my surroundings,

In an attempt to absorb,

Sorrows and glad tidings.

I recover from the present,

Put words to my thought.

I can have only a few words,

In them I explain a lot.

With a fierce purpose,

I jostle through my poetry.

In it forever captured,

Remains an essence of me.

I write boldly and proudly,

Hiding behind no curtain.

When gladdened or aggrieved,

No matter, I’ll write for certain.

Picture credit- cosma from Shutterstock.com