I move my pen across
the parchment, sometimes with
such precise strokes,
proceeding without
my guiding I wonder
if it’s really me,
my conscious mind appears
blank yet the other, does
not speak until I
sleep or so I thought,
I pick up a pen I
feel someone else is
in control, I write for
my mind is empty
though my pen dances
across the page, I
write outrageous words
of imagery thoughts
of emotion symbols
of happiness hidden
bits of my sorrow,
never used by me
before, maybe My Ghost,
the Writer, he knows.
A well crafted piece, Dan....Yes, the Ghost within, is the Gift within, and this you appear to possess, Sir...Solid penning. ~ F.J.R. ~
Fantastic. Loved it. The ouija board poet! ! ! No need for construction or false rhymes - just poetry as nature (or your ghost) intended. Clair
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I know what you mean, it just seems to write itself. The characters tell you what to put down and it is SO exciting. So well put. Marilyn