The Craft
When I write, I need to feel the wind in my pen
To touch the unfolded stories of the blank page
When I start these words, rarely do I know how to begin.
In the opening I can already envision the end.
Ambition’s heat building up, a raging fire I need to touch.
Every letter is a strike on the blacksmith’s anvil.
The craft was my first love, preceding heartbreaks were just energy for me to channel.
A steady balance, the ebb and flow, the words come and they go.
Structure and routine, emotion and longing, facing the fears that are talking.
Anger rising, sadness dropping, joy and me try to go walking
A lust for fame, discipline knocks the thoughts out the frame
The craft taught me how to tame the wild forces that make me lame.
Expression fighting depression, everyday a lesson on how to stop from second guessin'
Forcing myself to obtain an unrealistic goal, I ironically struck gold.
The craft is now something I can’t let go.
Releasing rambling thoughts with an alchemical formula to put my expressions in your hearts.
Explaining while being taught, how to hold on hopefully, the past wars I fought.
Even now I don’t know why the words present themselves this way, wondering if resentment will come to stay.
The craft is the craft it cost what I’m willing to pay
Day through the night, the tug of war, endless fights.
New creativity, born out of a longing or a need or want to see myself succeed.
I see what I can, hear what I don't need.
Shape the form to mimic the trees, strengthen my roots so the craft can bring fruit.
I crafted the craft, the craft crafted me.
You took this moment to sit here and watch
The transformation.
