Marie on DopaNite

27 Apr, 26

When He made me, He handed me a pen.
He spoke into existence my "writing into being."
Hence the name, "Prophetic poet"

He made them man and me, a wordsmith,
and saw that all was good.
The two became one, me and my pen.

I write when I am crying,
the pen tears through wet paper,
Leaking truths my chest can't hold.

I write when I am laughing,
the contractions of my ribs shake in ink,
Carelessly pouring out joy in scribbles.

I write when I love,
oh, I write when I love!
I bring the world kneeling before the altar of feelings,
I could sculpt a heartbeat,
and make desire visible on a page.

I would explode with intensity
if I never knew how to write about passion.
This soul of mine would scream,
refusing to remain unexpressed.

Marie
@marie

I write when I am exhausted,
when my bones tell me to surrender,
But my hand rebels,
forming crooked letters, making perfect art.

There are things buried in me
that only ink has permission to touch,
mysteries that resent sunlight,
but shine in the dark corners of letters.

And when you forget my face,
And my name becomes a thing of the past,

May you always remember me as the girl,
who held onto her pen like a promise,
who fell in love with words like they were alive,
and chose to write herself into eternity.
_Marie

27 Apr, 26

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