Birth of a Writer

On a sleeping sea I sail.
Floating through dreams to come.
Birds of hope fly above,
sunken ships of faith lie below.
I grasp a dream, solid as a stone
but light as a feather.
Tightly I hold on as the wind rises
and the waves crash.
The sea moans and lightning darts
across the blackened sky.
My faith pushes me forward,
like a knife I cut through the water.
The clouds break as the
sun climbs the heavens.
Tall I stand as the furies subside,
fleeing into the sea.
I have conquered doubt
and fear has found no place.
In my hand I hold my dream.
No longer a thought in my mind
but now a tool in which
to carry my dreams to you.
It conveys my words
and expresses my emotions.
In my hand I hold a pen.