Sometimes, I would sit

with a fresh piece of paper

and a pencil that I would

will the life in to, just

empty myself on to the page

until words became

sentences and, subsequently,

something of meaning,


of some worth.

Whether I penned a poem

or scribbled an appendix

for my mythology

(or simply sated my need

to see thoughts collected,

in the way only a writer can),

I would breathe more easily;

knowing I had accomplished

something in my day.

Strange, how only my peers

appreciate such nonsense,

and recognize my reality,

my version of the truth;

pertaining to the nature

of such things.

Similar souls ache to be

amused by the muse

and refuse to be abused.


3 thoughts on “Writer

  1. I like that thought – the need to see my thoughts collected on paper. I know that one well – though my paper tends to be virtual these days.

    • I need paper, always carry a notebook. I write everything by hand, copy it neatly then type it up and maybe post it online, A long process, but it works for me. I’m a writer not a typist hohowhat! Thanks for dropping by, best wishes from baldy 🙂

  2. Chris Black says:

    You wrote me even back then.

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