The daily scribbles need their room to breathe

I jot down lines, the remedy for Lethe

My heart palpitating, I become short of breath

To not marry paper and ink would mean death


Whether paper and pen or papyrus and quill

The result of the day shall never be nill

I consume the news as though I needed it to live

Ink not blood, royal blue is all I can give


Rhymes and rhythm and rolling R’s

I can’t bear to not write when I sit on my arse

Shuffling my feet, tapping my fingers

In search for that word that on my lips lingers


I must find the right phrasing

Invoke in my reader the praising

Of all that comes straight from heart to paper

Of words grand and little, I want to be the shaper


A world full of grey and yet my future’s black on white.

I know just two things: I must write. I must write.



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