For breakfast I’ve varieties of verbs.
I swallow whole the boldest ones I can,
With adjectives and adverbs as my herbs.
I search all day to find imagination.
From muse to muse, I travel in my mind
To apprehend the purest inspiration.
I look through closets of experience
Among the faded garments of the past
For colored cloaks of memories intense.
And from the lives of all I know I seize,
Without consent or knowledge, I confess,
Choice segments of their personalities.
I snatch a ribbon from the firmament,
The panoply of nature God’s supplied,
For image, texture, sound, and, sweetest scent.
I read what other writers have to offer
And note how words look seamed together well
Before my own attempts I dare to proffer.
The mixture’s stirred with tears from my own sorrows,
Along with laughter from my brightest days,
Then blended with the hopes for my tomorrows.
This compound that foments inside of me
Seeps into every single line I pen--
My life as writer plain for all to see.
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