Black pages dare me to create.
They want to be despoiled and marked,
ruined by ink in my changing scrawl.
They want words -- and never mind
that I have none to offer.
They will take any, drinking the ink
like my very heart's blood.
I give all I am to words.
Sometimes I feel words take all
from me, all that I am and --
no. Not all that I could be.
Words are longer lasting than breath,
but they are fleeting enough,
as are the memories they hold.
My words will pass and so will theirs.
Theirs will pass.
Their words will pass and I will wonder
why ever they bothered me so,
why I wrote an angry poem,
masked behind false optimism
and observations of creativity
that is fuelled by abstract yearning
just to make
so strong that perhaps it does not matter
Their words will pass and I
will be stronger and wise and,
just perhaps, a little clearer on
what exactly it is that I believe.
For you see, faith is not what I
am willing to follow
but what I am willing to lose friends
My support is not given lightly,
and when I have pinned my colours
to the mast, they will fly boldly
and I will not let myself