A writer writes his words in verse
Like some medieval curse
The way things were so long ago
Just to let the people know
What surrounds them in their World
As his lines of verse unfurled
Be it Nature in the raw
Or just something he may have saw
A few lines of thought transpire
Be it happiness or desire
That takes him on his wayward trek
Occasionally taking time to check
That,s what he really wants to say
Even if it is in a funny way
He gets excited at what he has written
The writing bug, he has been bitten
As he continues on his merry way
Writing what he has to say
Be it a love poem or a sonnet
Or of a pretty Lady in a bonnet
Or maybe it,s about Autumn time
Changing colours so sublime
The Trees, the Flowers and the like
All downing tools as if on strike
But it may be a piece written from the heart
About a couple who swear never to part
Or maybe it,s a mystery from long ago
Something someone wants no one to know
The sky,s the limit to what,s is store
Something magical that will last for evermore
The writers mind is an open book
Occasionally others get to look
Inside his mind through what he may create
Sometimes controversial, can cause debate
But that,s what makes a writer write
And stay up late into the night
He cannot rest until his work is done
No time to stop and have some fun
All that matters is what he creates in the end
To him his pen is his only real friend.