The Writer

Why we'd catered to the foundation of unpopular beliefs beyond what a romance like ours would follow beneath the calmness of people like us the fascinating wonder along the cities shoreline of gut wrenched haste we'd found each other in spite the gathering of hatred bestowed between the lines of a completed manuscript well kelp under my pillow why we'd balanced a certain novel approach to be forgiven if our love affair caused pain the lessons learned the writings on the wall poetically prohibited to love after writing a romantic love affair smothered by the mafia the creativeness the cunniness the sinking values of the old country crawling beyond the olive branches grapevines and lemon trees of tuscany finding me within the cupboards of cedar raw bourbon cigars painting a warm glass of merlot suddenly Italia began to bathe in my sweet nectar of kindness wrapped in nothing but desire hence a quiet find where being a female writer with masculine views why rather frowned upon throughout the twenty first century unless it's displayed on a mahogany mantel where Mann have left torn pages rippled wrapping of memos reminders that a woman could not write masculine binderies playwrites from beyond what's seen what's heard what's felt breaking barriers of what one believes should be allowed only in a sullen thought process the thinking kind the moral findings of patience and thought musing over the masterpiece I craved over labor pains breast feeding and hearing that a woman just can't write organized crime novels to be or not to be charmed by affection yet honored to be a writer