Who am I? No one,
A dreamer with unfulfilled
Dreams, bursting the seams.
Tears threaten to throw,
All the plans, carefully made,
Into fading shade.
Capricious Elocution
I think I write
But sometimes it seems
The words write me,
Searching out my heart, soul,
Tearing me to shreds, making whole.
Words are precious existence,
Love distilled for meaning –
Making clear the gleaning
Of was, is, will be
In almost captured dreams;
Streams laden with hope –
Wild flames catching time
Setting sentences to rhyme,
Only tell, what is the line,
Am I it, or is it mine?
© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
Looking at how writing works, I often find that it is a mystery no matter how I study. I thought one day I would understand, but I suppose the state is unmeant for me.
The truth is I cannot put it aside even when I am confused by the gift. Writing is heart, soul, consolation for the pains and troubles. Forever Friend!
Haphazard Creative 