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
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
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