Heart to Ink

Each morning I sit with pen in hand,

no grand design, no strict command.

Just thoughts that drift and softly flow,

from heart to ink, it gently glows.

The paper waits, a quiet friend,

no need to break, no need to bend.

It listens close with patient grace,

to every fear I dare to face.

The page holds joy, it holds my pain,

it gathers my tears like falling rain.

In its lines, my truth is shown,

I find the parts I've never known.

Some days I write of skies and dreams,

of rivers wide and golden beams.

Some nights are heavy, dark and blue,

but I still write, it's what I do.

Each word I spill, each line I trace,

becomes a mirror, a soft embrace.

A sacred act, a healing art,

that binds the pieces of my heart.

Within these pages, I unfold;

each written word a truth I hold.

It weaves my past and future near,

it makes my present crystal clear.

So let the world rush loud and wide,

I’ll find my peace with my pen as guide.

In every phrase, in every scroll,

I find myself, I feel my soul.