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