Is there something in a writer’s soul to keep
that name alive when pens are dried of ink?
With unsequenced words through lives they gently sleep
Yet “a writer is what I am” they dare to think
If bellows blow the coals you are a smith
But let them die and you will find you have no trade
Only streams of words will make the writer exist
Struck dumb you’ll see an ex-writer has been made
Ex-writers carry the fear of starting anew
Scared words like herded cats just won’t behave
Instead of writing what seeps out like writers do
They clutch their fears and drag pens into their graves
So written words remains the writer’s quest
Or saying nothing of “what I am” is what is best.
//ends
>> month of poetry 2012
And just like that the month is done.
2 comments:
Awesome sonneting.
I feel so sad for those who once had words to keep them company, and are now alone, or have already died, lonely.
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