Imagined Words

When I was young
I used the write stories and poetry
In my head.

Too quick for pen and paper
The stories unfolded before my mind’s eye,
Like drops of rain I could try
To catch them,
But surely I would miss too many to try,

I would lie in bed
With words my dreams,
With words the sheep I would count,
But surely with such tales on play
There was no way rest I would take

I would imagine the words
Being spoken from my mouth,
The thought of the sound of my own voice,
Catching and releasing the words from my lips,
And yet not a noise would be made.

When I was young
I was a dreamer,
An artist,
A dream artist,
Painting mental pictures
Of the imagined works
of this poetess.

“Artist” by Name

I am an artist
Of various mediums,
I stake my claim.
Long denied myself the title,
Without profession or degree,
But artist needs no authority,
I just am,
And so I will be,
I will write with paint,
And pen my portraiture,
I am an artist,
It is the creative force alone
That controls me,
Where it sends me,
I am yet to know,
There muses sing,
My hands work feverishly,
Between word and visual art,
The paper is my stage,
And this art is my ballet.