Every word, every phrase,
Every comment, every praise
Every single quiet trace of my pen.
Letters bleed out, arranging themselves on the page,
My mind has left with it.
Writing comes to me.
A tin of pencils, tips so dull
Sit across the table, growing full
Memories crack, left to mull over
The goals I have achieved,
People say it’s the writer I am and the writer I’ll be.
I say writing comes to me.
Every comment, every praise
Every single quiet trace of my pen.
Letters bleed out, arranging themselves on the page,
My mind has left with it.
Writing comes to me.
A tin of pencils, tips so dull
Sit across the table, growing full
Memories crack, left to mull over
The goals I have achieved,
People say it’s the writer I am and the writer I’ll be.
I say writing comes to me.
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