We watch, report
Write it out
Then contort
Watchers, poets, writers, scribes
Feel too much
Wrenching, inside
Its our job, not to sleep at night
To think too much
About life's plight
One watcher, will be drawn to another
All akin,
Sisters, brothers, lovers
It's what we are
In ancient times
They called us,
"The Scribes"
Old souls,
We everyone bare
It's a hard business
Not at all fair
But it's our job, chosen or not
To see, to feel,
To "watch" every plot
Our thoughts, can drown us
Or perhaps, heal
But with every action
More is revealed
For we are the "watchers"
With purpose, we live
And with our words written, spoken
'Tis life, we all give
My gramma tried to tell me when I was but a sprite. I didn't listen. Now, I see. I see. As do You. And when you can't sleep, know this, youre awake for a reason. You're a watcher. Its hard business. Be well...
