Friday, November 6, 2015



The Wordsmith

The beleaguered wordsmith sits with pen in hand.
Tortured by the pounding in his head that demands
he write something.  Anything that would relieve
the turmoil roiling inside his brain.  To quiet the
loathsome demons that demand they be heard;
their ideas expressed.

Like the addict’s need for his next fix, the wordsmiths     
desire to create his art with his words is never
completely satiated. The words are barely dry on
the page before the next inspiration begins to
work its way to the surface of his mind. Teasing
the writer with hints of the words to come, a
story to tell, or an emotion to express.

The words usually ask to be placed lovingly
upon the paper. Warmly caressed from line to line.
Slowly building in excitement until the final crescendo
leaves everyone involved weak and shaken.  Other
times, the words demand they be slammed roughly
against the page,  quickly, urgently,  with no regard
for the participants well-being. With only the need
to be made complete with the last period on the page
in mind.

The beleaguered wordsmiths love-hate relationship with
words knows no end, no final chapter, no closing of the cover.
Words will continue to haunt him, like a specter in the night: 
Fearsome yet beguiling, enticing yet foreboding.  Demanding
they be brought to light, displayed before the world, etched
into the pages of time.  To put words on paper is his drug of choice,
his reason to live, his elixir for life.  To deny them would spell
his own death. 

The beleaguered wordsmith puts pen to paper.
--Ken Ferguson

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