Posted in Poetry

Word play

I can call myself a poet
A surprise, I didn’t know it
You called me it first
Seeing in me, creative thirst

I can call myself a writer
To share my inner fighter
I write what’s true to me
Paid for, nothing was free

I can call myself an artist
Let’s go nuts, add it to my list
I itch to sketch, to add colour
Give my colouring in a holler

I do call myself a wordsmith
Words, like friends come with
Any format, length or style
I can play with words a while

Words need organising
It isn’t a random thing
They can help, protect, cure
Their meaning loud or demure

I just love words; their uses
Giving voice to abuses
Sharing tributes, care & love
Words just fit me like a glove

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Author:

I was 46 years old when I begun this blog, female and married with a house full of cats (7). My past is littered with the impact of events that happened when I was a teen. Two loves of my life have been nursing and studying. I just completed my Master of Arts: Media Studies endorsement. My blog will be about the things I think about, that might be better served being written rather than squirreled away in my mind festering. It is the meanderings of my mind as I seek to define myself and my world.

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