I wrote myself a boat

And attached wings to the sail

It was all made of paper

But my ship sails in the air

My imagination does the writing

As my eyes envision the outline

My hand creates the finished masterpiece

As right before me it all comes to life

The colors dance off the pages

And the words inspire the movement

Like a conductor conducts his orchestra

I’ve set my escape passed an illusion

Poet’s Thoughts:

I find this poem to be unique to the way a writer’s mind works. Or, at least the way mine works anyway. This is the way I see my writing, beyond the borders of the pages in which the words are written on. The ending simply means I can see passed the horizon, passed limitations because there are none when it comes to creativity.