For the Love of Writing

a writer sits alone in the dark,
spilling dreams onto white pages,
while the moon keeps watch with
wide eyes, and it seems the more
the writer writes the more pale
it gets, the more stars show
their faces, the more the night
comes alive in a celebratory
honour of truth on truth in a
world of lies. 

a writer sits alone in the dark,
stringing stories into a tangible
form while the shadows slither,
with silent hisses, awaiting a lie
that never arrives, as the writer
writes in the name of honesty,
with the same ink that seems
to rush fast through their veins,
to kickstart their heart after the
longest of days.

a writer sits alone in the dark
and writes because it is the
very thing they crave, because
the whispers are too loud and
their hands are twitching with
words that need to break free.
they do not know what they’ll
think of these letters in the
morning, but they continue to
write them anyway.

a writer sits alone in the dark
with a messy notebook and
a black pen, while the wind 
whistles outside the window
in applause for the beauty
of poetry, and truthfulness,
and for the love of writing.
the night is long, but calm,
the elements in harmony
with the work done. 

a writer sits alone in the dark,
pouring everything they are
into creating something more,
something that reworks minds
and ignites souls. the writer
doesn’t know if they’ll succeed,
nor do they pay that thought
any attention, for a passion is
a passion, and it is what keeps
them going, always. 

- Marisa Jorgensen