Night Writer

Night Writer

By, Kayla Daniels

 

I sit at my dining room table; it's 2 am

I listen to the sound of peaceful raindrops: drip, drop, drip, drop

I hear the trees whispering softly in the wind

I can almost hear the trees speaking to me, saying, "Keep writing Kayla, this is what you were born to do"

I grip my pen in my hand, as if it is my weapon of knowledge and dignity

I have several sheets of clean, pure, white paper scattered all over that beautiful mahogany wood table

I use this paper to express my passions, purpose, and priorities

I find my escape in nights like these

I find, well, who I really am, in the solitude of night writing

I flee the voices of the world, and for a moment, I can create my own masterpiece of literature, which is precisely mine

I have been told that I care too much, or work too hard, but when I am writing, I form a bond with that simple sheet of paper, and can't seem to stop

 

I find myself thinking the loudest, when the rest of the world is asleep

I cherish these silent moments, that only my heart can keep

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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