To the Black

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On Posting Daily

Cynical Wordsmith

My mother once told me,
“…don’t write something
just to post.”
And I haven’t,
I promise.

My thoughts come in waves,
Planets’ worth of oceans.
My soul forge burns,
Smithing words into weapons.
My heart cries
While it laughs.
My hands tremble
As the muses take over.

I’ve opened the floodgates
And stoked the fire.
I seek out emotion
And my pen stays with me.

I write when I feel now,
Though these feelings have always been.
And I only choose to share,
When I wish. Until then,
These waves and weapons,
These tears and trepidation,
Shall be kept here,
In my back pocket.
I promise I’ll still let you peek,
Once in a while.

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Change

Cynical Wordsmith

What does it take to change?
Is it force?
Or willpower?
Or a single, critical moment?

Was I looking for change
When my eyes found it?
Was I hoping for the best
When I compromised my integrity?
My needs are the same,
My heart still beats,
But there is something new
In this derelict soul.

A longing,
Subtle and unmistakable,
Quietly shouting my name,
Demanding the turn of the page.

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