The Writer
Caution, dear lover.
You chose to date the writer.
I fear there are some things you should be warned of.
The writer is a creature of habit.
Their pens and papers all aligned,
Tucked neatly under a desk covered in hobbies they never completed.
They found the next thing and left the past one behind.
But trust me — you won’t be treated like the toys and silly things they leave on their tables and nightstands. Despite all the discarded hobbies the pens stayed in the desk. They were there when he needed them.
The writer isn’t a stoic, but they need a megaphone to make the smallest noises.
They will pen you as a million different figures from Icarus to Archemedies.
You’ll be showered in flowers and feelings that almost leap off of pages.
Yet when they put their pens in a drawer, and sit beside you, they'll stay silent.
They need a mouthpiece, or their words stay silent.
So too, are their emotions.
You’ll find pages enough to fill corkboards of their hate, their sadness, their issues.
But they have a rehearsed “Im ok” script written into their heart.
They read it every night.
The Writer is restless.
Like a cat, they’ll bounce from idea to idea to idea, with so many half-finished, five-hundred word, half painted pictures that they thought they had time to finish,
And they won’t sleep until one of them is finished.
At the end of the day, however, when the cat crawls into bed next to you.
They will feel the most peace they have in a millenia.
You will be the paint to their canvas.
The pens to their paper.
Once the morning comes, so will the words,
But at least they mean them,
Because you decided on The Writer,
And maybe, just maybe,
That would be ok.
Copyright © Marshall Layne | Year Posted 2026
|