When the writer stops writing,
He falls to pieces.
He wonders about life, what has become of him
Where he is going.
He stops to question the abyss
Before diving in.
Mediocrity will not be accepted
in his mind, not in the literary sense.
For the rest of his days, all his heart desires
Is to type his soul out
His loved one beside him.
The world questions this, however.
It dares ask “Why?”
Life seeps in with its claws
Dark with blood.
The machine called “Leviathan”
Demands he “grow up”
Demands he “get a real job”
Demands he kill his passion.
The flame never dies
Within the soul of a writer.
Like a Pheonix from the flames,
The writer can never stop writing.
