We Writers

We writers write and bear alike the suffering of it
To breathe in ink those things we think while others simply sit
Without the quest of un-penned best, besot by phrase or form
Or restless heart where hope imparts a sweet and soundless storm

We writers scan the lowing span of new or ancient crypt  
Craving the rush of thoughts that brush, not in pigment but script
The carefree soul saunters and strolls, his thought easy to bear 
While writer's thirst, both blessed and cursed by noon's word-laden air

We writers know the high and low unleashed across a page
How want and will perplex the quill and midnight is a stage
To anywhere a pen may dare to revel in the vaunt
Of oceans stirred within a word; of musing's endless taunt

We writer's dream and nothing seems to be what it appears
Who knew the color blue could move a writer's smile to tears?
And who are we that poetry breathed by a blithesome breeze
Can smite our hand by its command and draw us to our knees?

We writers share the glorious care of searching heaven's face
Where we beseech and humbly reach to touch its hem of grace
Then, here and there the writer's prayer though unarticulate
Enjoys the thrill of words that spill in torrents through thought's gate

Janet Martin

John Greenwood shared an article his sister Joanne wrote and which I think many of us relate to. Read it here at Raining Iguanas