Why I write

The world around me, is full of words; 

Not the things that you can see;

but those you feel, and can be;

they are not visible to the human eye;

until pen and ink begin to fly;

simple objects become beauty;

beneth a writers skillful hand;

there is not bore, nor bland;

quiet streams and rushing falls;

twittering birds, and slithering snake;

beneath a skillful  pen, a new beauty take;

simple objects pick up new meaning;

And so I say with certainty, no fright;

this is why I write

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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