Writers Soul | Teen Ink

Writers Soul

October 24, 2013
By maggiejeanne GOLD, Heber, Utah
maggiejeanne GOLD, Heber, Utah
18 articles 0 photos 0 comments

A boy with wild green eyes
And a smile that curved like the crescent moon,
Once told me
I had a writer’s soul.
When I asked him what he meant by that,
He said my whole being is filled
With warm, peaceful stories
Describing the way summer bring us flowers
And true love.
I smiled at him,
But oh how wrong that boy was.
I was not simply born
With worded blood flowing through my viens.
You see,
Each word landed on my heart,
Every single time it was torn apart.
Tear after tear,
Year after year,
My writers soul was created,
Forever changing the way my eyes, mind and bones observed the world.
My scars from past times
Transform into notebook lines,
As electric fire storm letters
Come burning out
Melting magna sentences together.
After they cool,
I’m often left in a state of shock,
That these rock hard words,
Came from me.
When all was dark around me,
I took that black,
And I made it my ink,
Creating strange and beautiful things
That might open your mind,
Changing the way you think,
Keeping you on the edge of your seat,
Captivating you so deep,
Your eye lids forget to blink.
My writer’s soul
Is not a pretty place to be,
Often filled with the faded echoing screams
Of old promises and beliefs.
I am so thankful
For the pain filled
Days, weeks, months and years
That gave me this gift,
This talent that the world
Would have otherwise missed.
Yes,
All this did arise from horrible event
In cruel weather,
But I hope it inspires you,
To create ideas far better.
I hope my verses,
Give you chills,
I hope my metaphors,
Fill you with wonder,
I hope my rhymes,
Bring tears to your eyes,
Like rain, lightning
And thunder.
I hope you unravel every hidden theme,
And begin to see
That not all broken things are
Useless, ruined or rotten.
I was once only broken pieces,
Cheap glue hardly keeping my cracks together.
But now,
I plan on leaving this world
With one of those pieces.
The piece that deserves to be heard,
Carved out by my words,
My past,
My burns.
A writer’s soul is broken,
But never useless, ruined or rotten.
A writer’s soul is diamond rare,
Uplifting as fresh air,
And should never be forgotten.



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