Writing

Am i a page to you? 
A chapter 
Or a whole story? 
Do you see me or just the surface of my body?

 

Do you know what i love?
Do you care about what i hate?
If my mind is a palace - can you open the gate?

Would you even want to? 
And if so - would you handle all that blue?
Or do you have better things to do? 

 

Do you think that so far this poem is rather lame?
You can be honest - there won't be any blame  
Beacuse sometimes that's just a part of the game

 

In which there is no winning or losing
Just better or worse days
Of makeing sense out of life's haze

 

Just know that i read the kind of poetry i would like to write
And i write the kind of poetry i would like to read
I love those moments when i sit in front of paper and bleed

  For that's the way
As described by mr. Hamingway
When they asked him how to write

 

And he knew a thing or two about it 
So same as him - i'll take my soul and try to translate it 
And i'll be doing that on and on without end 

 

 
Beacuse that's it - that's writing my friend