The Unfocused Writer

The Unfocused Writer<br><br>Every day I wake up with intention. I go about my day with the best of intention, perhaps a little too much coffee, and a sense of urgency driving me forward. A drive, a fire within, enough to ignite the brightest of flames.<br><br>In my dreams, shadows dance and disappear. The wind whispers “you can,” “you must,” “you will.” The world is mine for the taking, and my heart beats with the promise of greatness.<br><br>But the morning light never quite sticks out and into the night.<br><br>I can feel the tangible desire to craft and create. I can feel words moving beneath my skin, aching to be set free. The world is screaming at me to let go, to share myself with the world,<br><br>But the morning light never quite sticks out and into the night.<br><br>I scribble poetry in the dust on my night table, I throw words at walls as I pace, I write stories in the running dirt beneath my feet. I am the conductor of an orchestra, singing my song for the birds to sing.<br><br>But the morning light never quite sticks out and into the night.<br><br>I have lived a thousand times, and died a thousand more. I am the shadows on the wall, the wind in the trees, the rain on sleepy nights. I am every voice that has ever whispered my name.<br><br>But the morning light never quite sticks out and into the night.<br><br>I am a painter without a canvas. A poet without a page. A singer without a voice. I am a writer without focus, a dreamer without drive, a soul without a body.<br><br>But the morning light never quite sticks out and into the night.<br><br>I am the unfocused writer, and this is my feast. With empty hands and hollow eyes I wander the night, searching for the light of my soul to become whole.<br><br>The morning light never quite sticks out and into the night.<br><br>But I have the music in my mind.