Poetical.

Here's something I wrote a couple of months ago.
Its unnamed. Sighh. Story of my life.

Everyone's a writer,
Everything's a writer.
The sky tells a tale with its rich and breathtaking hues
And a bridge offers a short story with its astounding views
and when we write, we write all the things we can't say out loud,
we whisper them into existence
with the pen as our instrument
and when the words ooze onto the page
they scream our pain
they cry our frustrations
they accompany us down memory lane
They stare back at us
Look us dead in the eye, as if to say,
Yes, I'm what you just scrawled and scribbled
and yes with me you can tweak and twiddle
But I'm here.
Back into the pen I cannot be sucked.
I am words. I am your words.
And when we close the book,
or scrunch up the piece of paper
or tuck it somewhere never to be discovered,
we feel relief because we've got something off our chest
whether good or bad, ground-breaking or insignificant
when the pen gets put down, something is different.
Everyone's a writer, we write to get by.