A universe sits at the tips of my fingers –
waiting to be penned into existence.

The blank page before me sings out from
the endless lines,
the infinite possibilities,
the worlds waiting to be breathed into life.

Characters hold their breath as their eyes follow the decorated spotlight
hands sweating
fingers digging into their trembling thighs
waiting for their moment to steal the scene.

The world shifts under their feet from
Daytime to nightfall
Green pastures and blue skies to
Muddy puddles and gray buildings.

I flick my wrist
and hearts break.

Ink blots
and darkness reigns the world.

I smile
and happy endings are in store.

For this is my creation
and I am it’s Maker.

But these unsuspecting innocents,
whose minds cannot possibly conceive
the madness of my own,
when they nudge me with their ignorance and ask
“What is your vocation?”

I sate their dwindling curiosities
my smile withholding the secrets of all I am
all I could bring to existence,
if I so desired
and simply say

“I’m a writer.”