Magician

Pen to paper

The space between

Felt plucking at fibers

Creates a melody

As if the pen were a wand

Waking a sleeping sheet from slumber

The melody of felt plucking at fibers

Sings a story back to me

What does it say I am?

A sort of magician

That knows no other trick

Than to tease myself

With my own potential

It shows me glimpses

Of the power I possess

Yet it shows me not how to harness it.

I write because like a child who colors

I too am amazed by the trail

Which blazes across the page-

Often times wondering in what direction it's heading;

Forgetting that I am a magician.

I hold the power to give the command,

Only, I lack the desire to dictate,

That, or I am afraid of one of two things.

The hesitance to acknowledge;

The truth that there is a disconnect

Between my hearts desires

And my minds receptors

Which are conflicted in giving my hand orders.

And the other reason -

Fear to recognize, accept, and embrace-

That I am a magician.