The Warrior is A Writer

Twirling, and Dancing

Working, and Slaving

Rejoicing with laughter ever sweetly

Hating the moments that sneer at me diabolically mixed with bitter rejection, that mocks my very existence.

Keenly aware that I am one with myself. Never, again putting my talent on a shelf.

I dare and conquer with bloody sinew of my past slaughtered with victory.

Making the naysayers ghosts of my torrid past history.

Today, with chalk in hand I handle with care the black slate of grace to begin my journey of writing once again.

The vigorous moment of realization of change with every participle I scratch someone can be changed. They can begin their span of their freedom march. With soaring banners of peace within themselves.

My cave my hovel of no majestic art or flakes of gold are found. Happy I am for the wells of life now spring forth.

A starving artist indeed I am. I am blessed evermore and never am I damned though many reprimand my choice of life and how they love to spread their strife.

Nevermore, my pen becomes a sword and with it there heads lay at my feet.

I am a writer, I never submit to the defeat answer the roll call. For now I stand tall with the wind at my back, and my face tilted in the rays of light. Everyday, is a moment a challenge but my pen is a sword my paper my breast plate this warrior of words she will be alright.