Writers And Poets

Here I sit At a desk dimly lit. Holding an unsharpened pencil Over a piece of old, faded paper, In my mind lingers a vague intention Within the unformed idea Of somehow writing something. With no clear idea, theme or plan. Only the restless desire to write. It's raining. Again. It seems to rain often. Not the weather. Life. Interior drops fall, Like flower pedals sacrificed. Beautys death, the ransom price. My desire lives in poetic rhythms, Not in serious writers cadences. I am not a writer. - I hope to be a poet- There is a difference? one may ask; Oh yes, I believe so. I'll attempt to express why. In poetry words flow, Like living waters. In writing ideas are built within words. The writer builds something, Like a dam, to hold and control the way of the water, To cause it to go somewhere precisely. Writers form canals to move readers To certain places. Poets open up the dark clouds over life Pouring out necessary wonders onto human souls; Thirst quenching beauties that all -in one way or another- Are in great need of. Writers, thankfully, take people To places where they are able To realize their own thirst. Poets give them the drink. The taste towards fulfilling life's true longings. Writers and poets together Make the dark a bit brighter, The waters a bit more navagatible, The way a bit clearer, And the thirst of life A bit more quenchable.