How about a little magical ink,
That flows from the ordinary nib,
From ordinary thoughts, red, white, and pink,
Through words, though ordinary, and glib.
How about those pictures you paint now,
With your dreams, in fluid streams,
Build a palace, a ship, and sail how,
And fill those papers, in reams.
How about your stories and mysteries,
That you lament over, in strain,
That fill those hours, sweet and sour,
And flow away, with the rain.
How about you start, and give them form,
Just take your vision and write,
For our minds neither contort nor conform,
But set forth to make things right.
Just think and dream, but boldly,
Be honest to thought, and yourself,
Let it flow, that ink, warm and coldly,
Through nothing but you and yourself.
Just take the brush, and paint and slush,
Don't wait for the birds to come,
Immerse yourself in fire and mush,
Give it shape, a bit, and then some.
Just read and sing and laugh and cry,
With the stories abound and around,
Meet and greet with those kind and shy,
And listen to their wondrous sound.
Just start down your path and walk away,
Find all your twists and turns,
Let the flow take over, let it sway,
You’ll find yourself through the churns.