The pen

At times I am a restless pen
looking for paper to say
all that goes on inside me,
no need for a guiding hand,
the story writes itself when
a million words fly out of my head,
as hungry as birds on a winter’s day,
and pick inspiration from everywhere,
black letters running over white sheets,
alive and busy fighting for space,
my soul rides the steed of fantasy,
travelling on a ship in full sail
down the abundant stream of thoughts
born in the centre of love
and fed from every beat of my heart
they want to live...
scream for air and light...


Sybille (Sydney) Krivenko 2007