Heidi Firth I love to write, and lately, slowly, I’ve been putting my pen to paper with nothing more in my head than perhaps the first sentence.
Sometimes the words make sense, sometimes they don’t. I’m allowing myself to just run with it and have fun with judgement.
I share last nights play below, just for fun.
“Words come streaming from my pen,
Some days I wonder if they will end.
For right now I will continue
But knowing forever is the only menu, I will write from, for words like food,
I will continue to devour
There is no fullness to their power
I am in love with words
and the feeling is mutual
They have to much to give, to share, to live
Their mystery will move like full rivers
rich, lush, full, raging
Who knows the current that they will journey
Not them, not the writer, nor the paper
They appear as clouds, fluffy without definition
Can be read like perspective, changing in an instant
Appear like a memory, not quiet, not even.
Showing qualities not akin to anything alike
They are a trickster, running, hiding, playing
When caught can change shape into nothing, as they were
Illusive, mysterious, intriguing, wonderous
How long they might stay – who knows?
In a moment gone. A game can be over.
Childlike is the writer awaiting his next turn
Waiting, waiting, A solo player stands, awaiting an opponent, movement, a friend?
A somebody to share in this magic…
is it shareable?
Or is it a gift for the player, who chooses to delve,
Into the mystery, the magic that are words?
Who knows? The words do.
Do they invite you to play?
To get lost in their magic, for another day…”
