The Writers Box

So I write, I write and I write. 
I like to write. 
I like to write so I write.
There is no purpose 
There is no expenditure
There is no outcome
There is nothing other
than me writing.
I'm in a box now, writing
but I'm freaking out a bit
I never knew it would be like this.
I don't know what to write anymore
I'm in a box, in a box.
I've been in this box all this time.
I guess I should have known.
There was never anyway I could
write myself out of this box.
All this time I thought I could,
if only I was given half a chance.
But I was only lying to myself, 
or is it a lie, and I am fighting
back with the only thing that
makes any sense, the only 
endowment, the whole enchilada
yes, this big writing lying thing
is virtue that I thought I held
but never did, for it was me
And I was it.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2022



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Book: Reflection on the Important Things