The Silly Writer



It’s the feeling of the ocean,

when you’re not really there.

It’s an idea, a thought, a notion...

Some clandestine affair.


It’s the villain’s pure white castle,

in the land beyond the veil.

It’s the forgetful lord’s own vassal,

and his busted, battered mail.


It’s an urge you get when it’s dark out,

or sometimes when it’s sunny.

Sometimes they are full of doubt.

And sometimes they are funny.


Some of them are rigid,

between the lines they fall.

Still others are quite frigid,

no feeling...none at all.


But some are wild still,

lurking in the brush.

Handwritten, with a quill,

by a sodden, saddened lush.


The rhyming ones are best,

or so that’s what I say,

“Begone!” to all the rest,

read them another day.


It’s all an accusation,

a question thrown to God.

It’s the reason for migration,

for this poor, poor floundering fraud.


It’s the spoon you have in prison,

my own god of the machine.

It’ll make them stop and listen,

-listen- and wipe the slate clean.


For now I write for me,

for my broken, clockwork self.

Someday I’ll fix the pieces,

and I’ll be helping someone else.


I’ve done it all to date.

Across the page I've fluttered.

And now it’s time... “Oh no, I’m late!”

the silly writer muttered.


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