A Thought

My head holds stories that I think I ought to be told, but my hand is sluggish to let the narrative unfold.
Why is that, do you think?
Do you know, dear reader,
how lucky you are that these words were released from their prison through my pen?
I'll venture a guess that it has something to do with success.
Michal taunts from above each time I'm stirred by a Dove.
Well, watch my pen dance!
I may be self-conscious, but I have another Conscience too, and between Him and you I'm better off snubbing you.
Don't quiet me down; listen up instead:
I'm not a poet, but I'm a stone and a vessel; a priest and a branch. So watch me grow, nourished right from the vine.
I rant and I rave and with each line I grow brave. So come out, little stories, don't let criticism hold you back. Take it in and grow strong. I won't be far away to mend what I  can and send you back out for more. Promise me this: don't lose sight of what we're fighting for.