Longing for walls lined with tapestries and lace,
An artist’s soul trapped in this arid place.
Unable to breathe from restrictions that suffocate,
A mind that is spiraling the visions trying to duplicate.
Looking for that place that only the mind can behold,
Webbing together the story to be told.
Will it be happy, sad, or will it offend?
Only the muses can decipher, while the artists pretend.
Playing the scenes over and over in the mind,
The secret expression, desperately trying to find.
Stringing the words in a way no other understands,
Correcting and changing to fit the demands.
The turmoil of watching as worlds are destroyed,
Torn apart by the masses, to edit they are employed.
Deciphering the words as they flow from within,
Typing the tragedies, the illusions, and sin.
Tis in this world I wander, looking for romance and fantasy combined,
For this is where my muse is purposely inclined.
Reading the words that flow in the wee hours of dawn,
Reading again, the masses have made me their pawn.
The words are not right you must write them this way,
Well to hell with the masses, is what I long to say.
My world keeps spinning this fantasy that lies within,
To put it to paper and let the chaos begin.
The story unfolds as the chaos reigns supreme,
For the world needs escape from hatreds horrible scheme.
If only to live the words on the page,
Instead of the tragedy that plagues the world’s stage.
This is the journey a writer must face,
To transport you, though briefly, to another time and place.
Spinning the stories that let you feel free,
This is the journey that was written for me.