A Call To Write

Instead of writing about us and them,

She jots her notes on a flower stem.

Her thoughts run, run and then stand still,

Like a proud stallion, upon a green hill.

Her fondest memories of her father were,

Who taught her to teach the power of word.

Next came her mother, whose talent she praised,

Like a bright fire at which one was amazed.

A gentle voice whispered one day,

Told her to keep going, there was more to say.

But what of? she wondered, so she asked a friend,

Why of me! How could thou not comprehend?

So, of her friend she wrote, not knowing if she might offend,

But it was her friend! A friend! A friend!

What was there to fear?

But then the them came, and the us, and the they,

And suddenly, the pen of the writer began to sway.

They'd judge, they'd mock, they'd rip up the page.

They'd call out mean things, they'd even engage.

They would then mess up the speech

So it

no l onge

r

so u n

ded

n

i

c

e

I t

f e l

t

l ike

BOMBS!!!!

EXPLODING!!!!

on really thin

i

c

e

But the writer smiled and waved them off,

Knowing enough torture would suffice.

For the end of her tale, she wanted to suggest:

Writing is not any war or conquest.