Everyone has a dream job.
As do I,
But mine is common,
And yet not.
Literature.
Novels.
Poems.
Writing; the scratch of
Pencil or pen on
Porcelain-white paper.
It calls to me,
My heart.
"Novelist, poet
Her works are
Great," is what
I want people to say, in
My name.
Not some silly
Amateur.
A professional.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
Shakespeare.
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue.
Oh, writing's in
My blood.
Not music or
Construction.
My hand curves
Around a writing
Utensil like
A lover's hand
Caressing their
Sweetheart's
*****.
I could write
Forever and ever,
Like an eternal heartbeat,
But every heart's
Gotta end,
As does every song,
And so does this
Poem. Until then,
Does the beat stop.