Another boring day

A poem about writing

Another boring job another boring day
No external stimulation takes the humdrum away
But here with this paper and here with this pen
I’m lifted to a different place, a different why and when

A fascinating character of depth and strength and pain
She smiles and cries and fights but is never, ever slain
A tender man of thoughts and music
Eyes are blue and dreams are lucid

Is it romance, horror or discussion
Will the characters like R&B or percussion
I build and strip, create and destroy
I could be Vonnegut, Byatt or (hah!) Tolstoy

No matter it’s mine, no one can take this away
I’ll build my little worlds each and every day
No one can see and no one can hear yet
But each time they grow and live, die and beget

Write on, write on dear writer
The sword? no the pen is mightier
For in the end the words will be right
I will succeed, well I just might