Block
The coffee’s hot, the ink is flowing;
The story seems to know, just where it’s going.
I’m only here to press the keys.
Don’t you love writing, on days like these?
The coffee’s cold, the ink’s dried up.
I stare, in silence, at my cup.
I haven’t yet disturbed the keys.
Who’d be a writer, on days like these?
END
Briz 29/10/2010
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Block
The coffee’s hot, the ink is flowing;
The story seems to know, just where it’s going.
I’m only here to press the keys.
Don’t you love writing, on days like these?
The coffee’s cold, the ink’s dried up.
I stare, in silence, at my cup.
I haven’t yet disturbed the keys.
Who’d be a writer, on days like these?
END
Briz 29/10/2010
