I was writing by hand in forest green
with nothing but abstract thoughts
in between each new thrust of my
old Lamy Alloy fountain pen writing
line after line after line to see how long
I could write without knowing why.
My strokes were focused and robust.
No type written font could compare.
A fountain pen touches the heart to
the page—for the ink was smeared
here and there from my tears that
dried quickly in the warm desert air.
Who but God can read the nuances of
a wearied mind or an ink stained heart?
Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)
I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)