The Writer


I could stop writing

When I go back in time

To never start writing

As I lose track of time


Pen was ghostwriting

For thoughts in mind

Flow was coast riding

Colorful boats of mind

Black ink was lighting

What ghostwriter finds

White paper obliging

To hold words in lines

Grammar was guiding

The inserts of rhymes

Concepts limelighting

The hidden wit of mine

Purpose was hiding,

And imminently dying


I can start writing

When I go back in time

To never stop writing

As I keep track of time


Mind is ghostwriting

For what pen writes

Flow is slow riding;

Colors coast the ride

Black ink writes blue

Paper rules the white

Pen marches for blue

Words lined so right

Grammar matter not

Rhymes matter less

Concepts always matter

Life of a pen, matters more

Coexistence is the purpose

Sad is the writer’s core

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