Writing

I want to write.
I want to write, with every fibre of my being.
But I lack the spark to my flame.
It begins with inspiration. An image, or idea, or scene just pops into my head like a whack-a-mole.
It only continues
Because of discipline.
I force myself to
keep going.
Keep building.
Hold onto the soul and spirit of it.
Often,
I fail
in completing it.
The scene never plays
The idea is lost
The image fades.
But,
sometimes,
it lasts.
1 word becomes 2 sentences becomes 3 paragraphs becomes a story.
A legend.
It's for those legends, that I write.
So that one day,
those legends
can spring forth
from my own pen,
and my name
will be on
the lips of the literate,
the tongues of the taught,
the creases of conciousness
of all.
Imprinted in iridecent ideals.
But,
I also write
for me.
For my own voice.
My own release
is in these words.
As emotion
and logic
congregate
into the very essence of my mind,
it can all find refuge
in the pages scored
by my own inked blade.