The mornings, the lunches, the nights,
I’m working in a bar for six days out of seven,
My time in life is persistently tight,
I’m writing on the sidelines, my words creating my heaven.
Letters tumble, the words crumble, my world begins to have a tinge of scumble.
But for every sale I get, makes me think that I made the right bet.
Every compliment creates another document, and my words might just go around the occident.
The end is in sight.
But the editing is a blight.
The words blur by, the black, the red, the white.
This story is a garden that has been tended.
But God damn, I’m tired, exhausted, expended.
How many more rounds do I have to do before it is all ended?
One, five, nine?
After all this hard work, this story better bloody shine.
Then I have to do it again as it is one of many in my creative writing assembly line.
This world is okay, but my head is better.
Quick! Write it down and become a trendsetter.
I prefer the stories in my head, to the ones on the bookshelf,
because no one else knows me better than myself.
The mental adventures I travel toward, make up for the ones I will never have in real life,
because the thousand lives I live are each their own reward.