The writer sits alone, watching,
the words flow from his pen..
He knows not why or how they came,
or where, or even when..
Sometimes the words come easy,
in the twinkling of an eye..
And other times he can't express,
no matter how he tries....
Inspiration might depend on
timing or on need..
A hunger gnawing deep within,
a lust born out of greed..
A few words are not quite enough
to satisfy his soul..
To write..and write..then write some more,
are the writer's only goal....
Those closest to him only think
he wastes his time of day..
But he is driven--thoughts unleash
the words that he must say..
He's told it's just a hobby,
that it doesn't bring a dime..
That few are paid for what they write,
especially for rhyme....
But he will reach beyond remarks,
unfettered by disdain..
The thirst that lies so deep within
is never quenched by gain..
Success depends on what is felt,
by those who read his thoughts..
To touch a soul with written word..
To him, that can't be bought....
So, in the early morning, long before
the break of day..
He sits alone, with pen in hand,
and writes what he must say..
The words are his addiction,
a hunger he must feed..
Unknown to him, within his words,
he plants the writer's seed....
Then at some other table, in some
place along the way..
Two young eyes read the writer's words,
and all they have to say..
He picks up pen and paper,
and just before the dawn..
He writes his first beginning work,
~~~Another writer spawned~~~
~~ To Live is to Give ~~
[This message has been edited by Sunny1 (edited 07-28-2000).]