I am a writer. Perhaps riddled with shame. Not good enough. Can't even write something that isn't good enough. It's all bad. Not good enough. A writer. That can't even spell his name. Who am I? Just a writer. Not good enough for any page. Thus I am dubbed 'Anonymous.' For words dwell in everything. I am the gentle wind that speaks; my identity out of range. Thus I am dubbed 'Anonymous.' As I echo through the rain.
As I thunder through the storm.
As I throb through constant pain.
I am the wind child.
I am the wind child.
Left behind by wisdom's breeze.
A glimpse of God in precious moments.
Orchestrated by eternity.
Bathed in everyday conversation.
Disguised in the ordinary.
I am the wind child.
I am the wind child.
Left behind, talking to the trees.
Of the earth, of where I've been.
Of where I go, Of all I've seen.
I am the wind child.
I am the wind child.
Left alone in fleeting memories.
I am the wind child.
I am the wind child.
Forever hoping you will remember me.

Anonymous