My Fire Still Burns Bright

In a realm of ink and paper, where stories reside

A weary soul withers away, that of which belongs to a writer.

Drenched in words and wrapped in untold tales,

An overworked spirit hopes her dreams come to light.

An ember in her heart, ideas cause wildfires, burning bright.

Deep waters of doubt drown her visions, put out the flame.

Each stroke of the pen is like a whisper in her mind.

Over time the whispers fade, reducing to nothing,

Overtaken by fear of louder, brutal, soul-ripping screeches from others.

The world spins relentlessly, everyone can catch up to its rhythmic flow.

It’s hard to keep up, for the silent poet seeks solace in her own world.

Her heart yearns for her stories to be heard,

Searching for something to ignite her flame and extinguish her fears.

She continues her mundane rituals, waking up to walk to her prison cell,

Where the bars are replaced with eyes and ears as she wanders the halls.

Her head hangs in the shame only she can see, only she can hear.

Laughter can be heard from a room, that can only be assumed to be disgust.

As I walk in I see it’s all in my head, not disgust, it’s…joy.

For the first time, the eyes of judgment soften and the ears take an interest.

There it is, the sanctuary, she’s found what was only believed to be a myth,

The Life Board.

From then on, through ink-stained fingers, she pours out her heart.

She found her bravery, found her passion.

In the depths of her soul, the ember still glows, not quite dead.

A flame of passion, determination, one that does not and will not rest.

To any weary soul, do not let your spirit dwindle.

For your own ink-stained hands hold untold stories, dreams, and hopes.

Do not fret if you are good enough,

for it is only you who hold the key to your life.

It is only you who can open the door to your fate.

The eyes of judgment do not really exist.

May every writer find their eternal peace.