A Messenger

As I sit and write some words,
And think from where they spring,
I guess I will never know,
For my mind will say nothing.

Perhaps I'm just a messenger,
And my hand is guided by,
Something that is much greater,
Than either you or I.

The words flow onto paper,
Without a thought or care,
But something deep within me,
Tells me, those words to share.

It doesn't take much effort,
The words continue just to flow,
So I let my pencil guide me,
Where it leads I do not know.

Sometimes that pencil guides me,
To write of thing called love,
Yet others I feel the need to,
Pen words of God above.

There's even times of humour,
To laugh at this world's woes,
But no matter where it leads me,
I'll go where this pencil flows.

So many people throughout the ages,
Have written words themselves,
For some it meant eternal fame,
And fortune in itself.

But did they really write those words?
Or show any great talent,
Or were they really guided,
To write those words as sent.

I do not believe in talent,
Instead I do believe,
That any words that I do write,
From somewhere else I have received.

So as you read these words as written,
No matter what you see,
I am merely just a messenger,
They did not come from me.

For everyone is chosen,
Their own small mark to weave,
Perhaps this pencil that is guided,
Is the small mark I will leave.

So when I leave this mortal Earth,
And I've left some words behind,
Remember I was but a messenger,
They did not come from my mind.

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