A Writers Exit
Sighed to the reflection of my wondering spirit.
Another day gone by, another cycle of quiet.
Thoughts sprawling around searching for profit.
Colliding, expanding, combining, Ive got it in a minute.
Everything is extinguished, but my pen is still lit.
The ink holds my memories, and i shall make my exit.
The artistry flows but it all seems quite private.
I strike to my woes to hope they would forfeit.
The story of him, the story of her, the story of it, the story you heard.
The habitual thoughts of which i'm tired, I've reached my limit.
And again I sigh to the reflection of my wondering spirit.
For alas the exit i had is now too extinguished
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