Writing. The act of

A short poem I wrote after witnessing the Vancouver Writer's festival. Critique, please!!


A flurry on paper,

It's the stuff of a writer's soul.

Feeling mourning, loss, love,

It's all a lost cause

For words dissapear in the world

Yet they reappear upon command

Scraps of paper all crumpled across the floor

Like a bed of wet, fresh leaves from autumn

Tumble amidst the stepping of feet

and the pile keeps on growing

"I don't think I'll ever make it"

"I'm here."

The lines cannot hold reason anymore

and the utmost whisper becomes a


"I think I'll try my hand at some comedy."

Red hands,

Gritty fingernails from the rubbing of the pencil against paper,

The neat pile of grey, monotoned eraser bits gathered on the side of the table

"You always were a funny one."

You take a breath,

but you can't handle it,

take it all in

"What was I thinking? I'm not cut out for this artsy crap."

"But you were always cut out...."

You can't finish

Your ideas as they pour out across the blank notepad,

Filling it up until you can't anymore

"You didn't finish."

Your eyes glint with a ferocity,

A sense of passion and knowingness.

Willingness to express and communicate your words, your ideas, through to anyone

"Never mind."

Finally, you're left breathless,

Staring at this creation,

This monstrosity.

This magical thing you've given birth to, like the aura of the essence of your every being.

It takes your hand and guides you, closer

To him, yet away

"I can't believe you're not real."

The End

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