Sometimes it takes a well crafted sentence
To realize you’ve been holding your breath,
A well rounded sonnet
To give language to your pain
And vocabulary to your distress.
There is solace in the pen,
A quiet delight
Of being the first person
To see your own thoughts on a page,
The fleeting ghosts of your mind
Suddenly given flesh and bones,
The formless world of thought
Brought into focus through writing
Bringing clarity
To a troubled mind
A cool drink of belonging
In an dessert of anonymity.
Every song of freedom
Was written by a person
Who themselves were not yet free,
And where they had no guns
They did have pens
And they would write and write
Until they wrote themselves free.
There is solace in the pen
A quiet delight
A peaceful stream
A place to lay your weary heart.
Go write.
heartinscriber 