If you want to be a writer,
you might as well forget money,
the ink pierces your skin-
such a pattern of mourning-
it strips all pride in hopes you'll quit-
like they all do.
You might as well sign the contract of death-
to die before any work-if that even
or merely acknowledged.
The steps of becoming one with the pen,
begin with hurt
there's no way you can achieve a smile
when a thousand doubts are slapping your face.
so you're locked up in your own world-
without a key.
The pity emphasizes the fact you're unknown
and from that you always will be
hopes and dreams are stomped on
while you continue to change the world
with a single line-
I want to be a writer.
Well of course you do-
but can you run through the eternal disaster?
Hoping you get through
without a single scar
blood only kept within.
That's the defining moment-
blood seeping through-
searing feeling of the climax
and then it all ends.