Ghostwriter

"Dear Diary" said the scribe onto the page. "What is it i wonder, that inflates my **** to as big as my ego when i write about myself + take the time to pretend that i care?

Tick Tock

fix-it-man

A voice to drive this passion.

Transitional transcendental trapped
betwixt
The written and the spoken
word.
A restless journey
dependent on interpretation and perception.

Then to become of word into form.
To breathe ink and birth creation
into reality.
Then i could sing these words and dance to each rythmic strain.
It would be life lived as it is written.

If time will provide.

Then of course this discourse will close the gap and bring me closer to myself.

Oh Myself! You're back again, how i missed you and your self indulgent interest.
If only you were there, the spectacle, you see, was me.
And for a nano-chromatic passing of time, you and me, us, you see, we were actually, honestly, one and the same.
The spoken word had become the written and with little contamination from self, had become true and of conscience.

And i call myself a scribe? as i pen a silent voice with softly spoken conviction