No this will not be an ode to creativity,
Nor will it be an epithet for emotion.
It will not serve as intellectual *******,
Nor an attempt at pointless immortality.

I write simply cause I do,
Much in the vein of walking, eating, breathing.
It is an instinctive process of nature,
Like a lion hunting a buck.

No I do not strive to write.
I do not search for muse or flavour.
On occasion a bolt from the heavens
Will find its way through my pen
Onto a paper
And like the village *****
Land up discarded on my floor

This is not a love letter to myself
I did earlier confess
I write simply cause I do
Its nothing more than a natural process

I love my earphones
Besides the music
And the occasional spark it CAN add to fashion

I love them because to a certain extent it lends me this sense of oblivious-ness..... (is that a word? )

I sit here in the airport and I think.....
I imagine
What his story is
And why she cried the last time she cried
It's a challenge to do this without the sound of their voice
But it's fun

All these lemons
But my lemonade stil tastes like ****