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The wake of a writer
There were days when by merely holding a pen, the banks of words within burst, and streams unending ran through.
Now, even the will to hold it fails, and when I do, it's a tempest, chaos everywhere, waves so strong that they drown the words, before they form.
There's so much unsaid, letters scattered all over. The fire inside consumes me, searching for a vent of release
yet, there's none forthcoming.
Would I still be a writer if I couldn't put words together?
I'd plead that you all attend my wake
but, other pursuits' will to live,
surpasses that of the loss for words.
For their sake, I'll live on and hope that someday, I'll be a writer again.
Now, even the will to hold it fails, and when I do, it's a tempest, chaos everywhere, waves so strong that they drown the words, before they form.
There's so much unsaid, letters scattered all over. The fire inside consumes me, searching for a vent of release
yet, there's none forthcoming.
Would I still be a writer if I couldn't put words together?
I'd plead that you all attend my wake
but, other pursuits' will to live,
surpasses that of the loss for words.
For their sake, I'll live on and hope that someday, I'll be a writer again.
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