I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I’m a
chapter I’ve written. A character built
out of nothing but my life and hands. They
stain my pages because I bleed and wilt.
I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I form
worlds out of words and people out of trees.
Watch me resurrect a dragon, a storm,
a tower of Babel out of dust and debris.
I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I see
angels in the dirt. There are pilgrims who
cross the dusty roads of life with me
shadows behind them of friend that they knew.
I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I play
with hearts of the young and dreams of the old.
I try to weave a story that may
drip in their house tiny drops of rose gold.
I’m a writer, I’m a poet, but just
a person too, striving to catch meaning
out of air, catch something to cling to. Gusts
of the wind in my bucket are singing.
Oh, this is beautiful, Evelyn!
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Thank you Chalice! 😄
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That was so stinking amazing. Love your poetry! I feel it so deeply! ❤️💕👍👌🙌
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Oh I’m so glad. That’s why I write it! 😁💕
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EVELYN. That. Was. Beautiful!! I love your poetry so much, and this poem was spot on! ❤
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Awww thank you. I’m so glad to hear that! 🥰
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This is going on my poetry wall! Your rhymes are perfection: mentally and aurally beautfiul. ❤
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Aww thank you! That made my day. ❤
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Good night!! Yikes… That was awesome!!! I LOVED IT!!!!!!!!!!!
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Thanks Erica! I’m so glad you did! 😀 😀 😀
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I love this, Evelyn! You have a way with words. Please don’t ever stop creating poetry. ❤️
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😊❤️
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“Gusts
of the wind in my bucket are singing.” – This is my favorite line.
I think you have definitely caught something to cling to.
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Thank you GranAnnie. ❤️❤️
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Beautiful!
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Thank you!
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