This is the story of a writer. A person who keeps a pen as weapon, Paper money, a light late at night a friend. A story of a writer. The person to choose the music, Dance in a departed room converse, to mirrors and behind veils. The story of a writer. Not merely fun, games and Christmas ideas, not someone to idealise, to trust, idolise, Though not to pity, worship maybe hate. What this is; I am. I am that person, my life, It is the lines, my tears, The full stops at their ends, my losses, Are between them. A story of me, to you who know me well, Invade me, rape me, discriminate me, love me, To prolong me, my life; the writer, his life is a number of lines, covered by old grey hands of sanity and wisdom; heavens preserve. Full stops, commas and such, is the story of me, were it but true. Nobody suffers more than he whose mind creates, Where the mind is the heart in words and the heart, the secret of life, untouched, unspoiled yet thoughtfully and painfully explored.
Reason for writing:
I took a good look at myself and thought: "Now what does
this mean? i.e. The feeling I have that not everyone else
has: I NEED to write!" What does it make me? This must seem
like lots of philosophical bollocks, it isn't really.
Please E mail any comments to my E mail address. Any
criticism is very welcome.
Birth sign: Not entered
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