Rest little letter

            Writer’s Block…how dare it rear its ugly head at the writer? Return to thy cage beast that dares to sit upon his pen. Lean not your countenance upon his weary soul. Sleep eternally and rest your blackened shadow that haunts this paper. Must you leave the paper so empty of existence?

            Slowly, the pen tingles within his grasp as it seemingly comes to life. The nervous twitter crosses his mind and propels the arm to feel needed. The hand indulges the urge to feel the energy flow from the thought in the heart to the energy that feeds the pen and soon, words begin their journey to life.

            Carefully woven, each curl of the ink…the tiny splatter that appears as the ink appears in curved impressions. Thus, a letter is born into the world. Give great heed to the letter, curled.

            The letter is a child, waiting to be, held by its mother and father for the first time. Although, this child may stand-alone or have thousands of siblings upon the page, the letter should be, treated as the individual that it is. Let the letter; be loved, for the gift it brings of binding humanity.

            Speak no ill will, to no one, little letter. May all those that look upon this little letter see the offering of peace and happiness to those that live through the letters that they bear? The letters written are the reflections of the heart, defining, and being, defined by the writer.

            In time, more and more letters have adorned the page leaving the writer pleased that if the heart of one soul can touch another soul, those two souls will be, bound by that single memory they share.

            For this purpose alone, we seek the truest of true love. Only a few ever find the one that is right for them. The rest seek out the world never fully understanding why true love has forsaken them.

            The pen strikes upon the paper for the hurt of a thousand pains. Was it this one? No! Was it that one? No! The pen stops and the writer, considers the shaping of his letters before turning his mind to a thought, more kind.

            With a softer pace, the pen moves across the paper. Battered thoughts, left behind in exchange for the frivolity of memories, most kind. Soon, the letters take form as given to birth and begin creating the written image of his heart.

            Long brown hair that rests upon the pillow, adorning the softness of her smile, has appeared in his mind. Generous eyes filled with love, poise the heart of the writer’s heart, beating faster and faster. Soon, the curved letters, jagged with excitement until the writer steadies himself and goes for a safer place to dwell.

            Decidedly, he retains his focus upon the beauty of the women though he refrains from seeking out the details for fear of exciting his thoughts, again. Would he dare let the ink flow in words of desired passion? Shall the shape of the letter read in nervous, penmanship? Neither of which, would he allow should his thoughts seemed focused on selfish lust.

            ‘How dare the person resist their thoughts from the passionate dreams given in love?’ he wonders to himself.

The pen strikes hard as ink splatters around the tip of thought he grieves to embrace. Rise up morning sun and let the writer dwell on his beloved. Let him touch her with his longing embrace.

            The pen becomes strong, as forceful energy flows from the mind and to the hand. Letters are born at a frightful pace as the dream of her hand caresses his skin lightly as a feather.

            A shiver quickly retracts the pen from the paper and just as quickly, the painted heart returns to cast its show upon the paper. With feverish strokes, the writer recants the dream of his heart, the craving of his soul and the passionate desire of his body, all for her.

His words begin to speak of feeling her silken lips against his own. His arms drawing her near, to feel the warmth of her body pressed against his. Fires rage throughout his soul as wave after wave of absolute need takes control of his sense raising the beast he hides beneath the disguise of a man. Her hands cleave to his shirt as she kisses him with such forceful passion…such wonderful enthusiasm. It is, as if she knows the effect she has on him and turning her man into that beast is her goal. The feeling of her lips speaking volumes of her own desires to him. Her hands begin grasping harshly, at his clothes, as his kisses move to her neck, her weakness.

Oh, the sounds she makes that no words can describe, as they are unique to her. They are her mating call that draws her soul mate with a voice only his heart can hear. The lyrics of the song speak to the man, “I am yours…take me”.

            In a burst on desire’s madness, the writer declares, “How can I write when I am utterly consumed by her?”

            Quickly, the writer placed the lid upon the pen, closing the ink within its home and tossed upon the pages of dreams. The writer dashes away, to fulfill his desire and leaving his work to rest.

 The letters quietly finish drying while they wait for the creator’s return. Until that time should come rest, little letters and sleep you well. For, the writer in furious passion left you for another time when your family shall grow.