Maud Hotor
I Sit Here, The Lonely Wordsmith…
Stringing words together, writing poems after poems after poems
Coloring the perfect picture of loneliness in radiant words
Painting my angels and demons
With every drop of ink bridged is the chasm between me and blank pages
A patchwork of my thoughts exposing my soul
My words dictate my wellbeing; my secret warrior supplying me with endorphins.
I Sit Here, The Lonely Wordsmith…
Writing poems after poems after poems
Writing a thousand words for you and maybe a thousand more
You are my muse; the cloud that swaddled my peak
and silenced my thunder when I tried to speak
The water sage to the mirage of my soul
I write lyrics and stanzas each night with the slightest thought of you
Poem for poem, line for stanza, I could carve history with quills writing in our blood
But Yet I Sit Here, The Lonely Wordsmith…
An empty soul assuring myself with empty words
Behind these words lay a little piece of heaven and a little piece of hell
I am like a pickle in a jar drowning in salty tears,
waiting for someone to want me and drag me out of this jar and take a bite
I am pieces and faults and scars and addictions
And a Lonely Wordsmith until the day I give up and become just another lost soul.
Maud Hotor plans events and occasionally goes to school for her father. She likes writing, pressing pressing her phone and moving from one linkop to the other on weekends. Be