We, the Writers

I’ve always found myself a little wordy,
But then I got to meet with Matthew Quick
And realized that writing is a verdict
And not a job that someone gets to pick.
There is a certain world that we belong to,
A world misunderstood by many men:
We do not write because we simply want to.
We write because somebody guides our pen.
We write because we hear some inner voices
That give us words, and lines, and rhymes, and plots.
And when we hear them, our soul rejoices,
But when we don’t, we’re often driven nuts.
And nothing makes us happy or arouses
When we are in that silent, voiceless mode.
And it can get so hard for our spouses,
Who chose to join us on this rocky road.
Sometimes our dreams are driving us insane
When we transform, or die, or fly, or drown,
Go through adventures, losses, fears, and pain,
Wake up and start to write that nonsense down,
And then somehow the story comes together.
And then somehow it all starts to make sense.
We grab our laptops and despite the weather
Run to the nearest Starbucks in suspense.
We don’t know how the storyline will go.
We never know what happens at the end.
We simply sow a seed and let it grow,
And hope that it will turn into a plant.
We often stare at walls in weird silence.
That’s when a book is being born inside.
Sometimes it is romance, sometimes it’s violence,
Sometimes we’re Jekyll and sometimes we’re Hyde.
Our inner voice has gotten all the power.
It guides us every day through every word.
We write a book and let the world devour
And recognition is the best reward.
Of course, we’re often criticized and taunted,
But those of us who do not drop the pen
Know that there is a world that we belong to,
A world misunderstood by many men.


Рецензии
Hmm… Starbucks… That’s is so perceptive!:))) No one knows how the story will unfold save the Author of Universe. To be understood by Him far outweighs comprehension by the world of men, and, though in a hand of a poet rests only one feathered quill, it did once belong in a wing of the fire-defying Phoenix… As a quill caresses a parchment, a fire of spirit springs up from beneath it to kindle the lights of stars in many a grateful heart revealing sleepless dreams of the world that once was or may yet be… And to think that in Starbucks one may yet see the living stars that alighted to seek the solace of a warm hearth and dark mead…

Мге   01.01.2014 10:13     Заявить о нарушении