Jul 2016
Tonight, as the clouds cry,
The thunder cracks,
And lightning lights up the sky.
A little writer begins to write.
He writes for peace of mind.
He writes a piece of his mind.
This, a feeling so pure.
Parting with a part of his soul.
Strewn, shards on a piece of paper.
So alone, at ease, he's compelled to compose.
Compose the ideas of life
And all of life's lies.
To tell the world,
Not to abide.
To tell the world,
Look that ***** straight in her eye.
Say **** it, and give her a smirk and
*Fly.
The thunder cracks,
And lightning lights up the sky.
A little writer begins to write.
He writes for peace of mind.
He writes a piece of his mind.
This, a feeling so pure.
Parting with a part of his soul.
Strewn, shards on a piece of paper.
So alone, at ease, he's compelled to compose.
Compose the ideas of life
And all of life's lies.
To tell the world,
Not to abide.
To tell the world,
Look that ***** straight in her eye.
Say **** it, and give her a smirk and
*Fly.
A night when creativity visits a writer is a day when a piece of his work feels complete in its own terms. This was one of those days. When the flow did not hesitate, when I was unable to suppress, I just went on. I wanted to tell the world that the things that stop you from achieving and striving for greatness, they do not necessarily have to dictate your life. The only hard part is beginning.
