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To Sculpt a Poem


Sometimes, I wish I was Michelangelo. 

I wish I could see the angel,

Before I set her free from the stone, 

My mind.


But alas, I am no sculptor nor painter.

Us writers, we are magicians, mages and warlocks.

Conjuring words from thin air,

Stringing them together as we go.


Sometimes, 

I wish I could peek at her tender hands through the uncut rock.

So I may chip away stone day and night to carve them to perfection.

But, I possess no hammer, chisel nor rake.


Sounds trapped in letters.

Letters stitched to form words.

Words which I must now weave,

Into a warm winter blanket that shall not exist in the real world.

The real world.. where it's cold.


Ah yes. Words.

They are the only tools I wield.

How do I ever see my creation like Michelangelo saw his angels,

When I am being asked to embrace her,

Before I pour life to her very inception?

- P.S

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