What makes a writer?

Well, I really can’t say,

I’m sure its more than the scribbling,

Done for work or for play.

It’s more than communication,

In its most basic form,

Is it a cry from the soul,

That by a pen has been torn?

I’m not sure that I am one,

But I hope that I am,

As I sail out on a blank page,

In this ship of the damned.

It’s slow to get started,

But I finally do,

I wring out my heart,

Then I hand it to you.

Is it an art form?

Or is it a craft?

I often think,

To me it’s a life raft.

There’s thoughts stuffed deep down in me,

From the hurt in my life,

But they come out on the paper,

Like from a surgical knife.

And sure I share some,

For my friends all to see,

But honestly most of it’s,

Just written for me.

And I think of this thing,

Hell, where did it start?

It doesn’t matter if it’s craft,

A tool or an art.

I’m sure it goes back,

To when life rose from the mire,

As he left his first marks,

Like the ancient Celtic gyre.

Or I envision a hominid,

Bored in his cave,

As he sat and stared blankly,

We’ll call this guy “Dave”.

Ol’ Dave picked up some charred wood,

And in a left handed scrawl,

He drew out a message,

In his cave in Lascaux.

Though the penmanship was garbled,

It’s message was clear,

It said, “Oh Please gods above,

Remember Dave was once here!”

And so it goes,

Right down to today,

We write garbled words,

Then we give them away.

They all say the same thing,

Through the blood and the tears,

“Please someone remember,

I was once here.”

Back through the ages,

Through the rustle of pages,

They cry out,

I was once here.