It's Who I Am

In the coldest of days and nights

In the darkness

In a shroud so thick and real

All I could feel was the fire igniting inside me

All I could see was the light of inspiration

Reaching out with its warm

Golden arms

All I could be was alive

All I could do was write

So I let the words flow through me

So I let the words spill out of my fingers

That wouldn't dare spill from my lips

So I mark another page

So I live another day

With these words I wouldn't say

And who I am

And who I've been

And who I'm becoming

I am

I've been

I will be a writer

When all else ceases to exist

When I'm running low on 

What could be

What would be

What if

These words will still exist

Inside of me

Outside of me

Around me

Surrounding me

Grounding me

Those and that which I've lost

Still exist

In the literature that is my memory;

In the heart that is my poetry

Those and that which is to come

Is becoming alive

In the imagination that are my stories;

In the time that is created line after line

When the hourglass runs empty

These pages will run full

I'll run free

Into the fields of redemption

That is being a poet

I'm saved from the silence;

From the injustices

With the justice of what I can create

This life is my easel

These words are my paint

Who I am?

Who have I been?

Who am I becoming?

I am

I have been

I will be a writer