An Artist of Words

My pencil.
It hovers over my paper
and seems to say,
Create a new world
of dreams and sorrows.
You alone can share what's inside
and guide me into fashioning words
that caress the reader.

My hand flickers in hesitation
for a single moment,
then begins the long process
of emptying my mind.

Words blossom from my hand,
each mine to love and nurture.
My characters take on a life of their own
as I move my pencil across the page.
They are my friends,
my enemies,
and my loved ones so dear.
They are a part of me,
there to bring comfort and solace.

Ignoring the ache in my fingers,
I write on.
Because to let the story unfold
is like painting a masterpiece
of gold and silver,
laughter and tears.
Such art can only be seen
by those who truly believe
in the magic of writing.

I stop to look at the page
to realize it isn't the first,
or the second,
or even the third.
It's gone beyond that,
so quickly I didn't even notice.
Once again,
I've written down a part
of the ever-changing me.

The room is dark as I adjust my flashlight,
change my sitting position,
and let my hand once more hesitate
before continuing my painting of words.