The Writer Poem by Jacquie StewartHeimann

He sits and stares
The paper crisp and clean
His mind in chaos
A torrent of words and sound
Jumbled, twisting, distorted

The silence presses in
The clock whispers
Tick, tick, tick
He groans and grabs his head
In frustration, in desperation

Everything there
Elusive, dangling
Just out of reach
One thought away
Tempting, teasing, torture

He pushes back
The chair scrapes, the table creaks
Rising he paces, mumbles
Hands clasped, knuckles white
Anger growing

Where is the inspiration
The muse, the soul
To pour across the paper
To inspire others
To feel, to live, to love, to hope

A sound, faint and clear
Carried by the breeze
Beautiful, sweet and pure
He pauses, listens
Stares at the window

Again the sound touches him
He opens the window wider
The noise, the bustle, the dissonance
Pushes back, beating down life
Heavy, pressing on his soul

He watches outside life passing by
Living in their own selfishness
Oblivious to all that’s around
To nothing but their hate,
Their anger and despair

From below, again the sound
A child playing
Humming a simple, joyful song
Cradling her doll
Her precious treasure

Gentle hands brush the hair back
From a porcelain face
Soft lips bestow a loving kiss
Quiet whispers, to low to hear
Love flows from innocent eyes

A glow surrounds her
Growing, rising
Reaching for his tormented soul
Steals his breath, tightens his chest
Gasping for air, he cries

Tears flow as he lets go
Of tensions, anger and loss
Of others expectations
Their demands
And his pain

He breathes in the fresh breeze
The cool, quiet innocence
Of a child in a world of war
Of love in a world of hate
Of hope in a world of despair

The paper crisp & white
No longer clean
But spotted with the cleansing tears
Beckons, calling, ready
Singing softly to his soul

He sits
Lifts pens
Ink flows
Words burst free
Across the waiting page