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.
