Keys clack tales,
over the smell of black coffee.
Hands off the rails,
and mind rich like fresh toffee.
Worlds and cities.
Men and women.
All written as ditties,
from others once given.
The only time the keys ever stop,
are to light a smoke, swish coffee, or punch the clock.
Leaving me most days at the top,
but some others, weighted, beneath the dock.
Though I want no sympathy,
I must admit,
that when without empathy,
I often think to quit.
For life is short,
and death far too long,
to waste in the court,
of a lost lover’s song.
But something keeps me calling,
back on my muse,
and whether flying or falling,
I’m paying my dues.
Whether bound to in blood,
or by some sense of duty,
pages and pages I’ll flood,
whether with horror or beauty.
But I must reiterate,
that I’ve come close to starving,
hoping to instill,
mental or emotional carvings.
Without readers and others near me,
to keep me afloat,
I would drown in the sea,
of a success-surrounding moat.
For now I’ll just say,
that no matter the biting,
I’ll keep on my way,
and continue writing.
Wordsmith of Sol 