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Words and syllables spun of eloquent vocabulary,
Impellent thinking leads to an intangible slurry.
Calm your mind and the words will follow,
Weaving them into feelings, anything but shallow.
Wounded interior and a scarred soul,
Pain and Sadness resonating from my core.
Elaborate language your only remedy,
Fraudulent verbs my only clarity.
Geniuses we are not, just skilled at weaving,
A necessary sin to prevent sanity from leaving.
You believe us writers to be truly talented,
When all we have is a psyche that is multifaceted.
Commit this crime of passion we must,
Or crippled, we’ll be lying in the dust.
Our words, nothing but emotions of nature,
So when we die, we shall be immortalized on paper.
Writers write for they are egomaniacs,
A fancy poem our soul’s aphrodisiac.
Spinning words, the most heinous temptation,
Desperation for eternity our only salvation.
Northern Nevermore 