The writer

The writer

Words flow from the writers pen,
like water from a jug.
Ideas cackle about the mind
like fire raging against the wood.

Inspiration floats down to the writer
like a wind blown feather
lost from the heavens above.
Meanings are found between the lines
of every day life.

The writer rebels against time,
rushing and pushing to reach his goal.
A goal that seem unreachable by all.
Yet it makes sense to the writer who
ignores the whispers, as he tries to push
back his block.

A wall hits, large and intimidating,
stopping the writer in his tracks.
But the writers is as sly as the fox
who cooed the cheese from the crow,
an manages to cross the wall over
a bridge, support givng by friends.

The writer scriblles away into the night,
perhaps forgetting to sleep, to eat, to drink,
maybe even to bath as his new creation
spills out on page upon page

The mind is filled with riddles
voices critizing the work, forcing
the work to be scrapped and started
anew, against the wishes of others.

The mind operates on coffee, juice,
joghurt, carrots, celery, fruits and the
occaisonal ice-cream binges
and warm home-made cookies that
the writer eats on small breaks between
long bouts of writing.

Somedays the writer gets no sleep
staying awake the whole night
finishing the unspoken race towards
the end, words being scrambled
senteces not connectied properly.

Until at the break of dawn,
he can be found, slumped over
on his desk, drooling and asleep.
Chasing women in wet dreams.

The writer only finds rest
when he's satisfied with the work
He's done, when the critic has nothing
more to press against him.

Only then could the writer lay his
pen down, put away his crumpled
papers and sit back and say
wth complete confidence and finality
"I'm done"