A writers dreams, are like a crazy persons thoughts
or maybe his thoughts, are just what that crazy person does
whatever the case, his art sets him free, he opens his heart
as the words just unleash, releasing his feelings, both the good and the bad
not knowing of these, with out a pen and a pad
at least is the case, with this one deranged man,
who only sees truths, when he writes them on hand
he cant live his life, without such an aide
because the thoughts in his mind, are misplaced until laid
on to a page, a wall, or even his hand
if you look at his palms, they are covered with ink
without ink this man, would just sit and not think
A view in his mind, might look just like this:
"A carpet, a hug, a man, she red think"
till writing it down, he knows not what it means
but placed on a page, it is the most beutiful thing,
he writes about love, in a red velvet room, with a man and a woman
better yet a wife and a groom
the pictures he paints, in the mind of the reader
can not compare, to those displayed in a theater
they resemble true life, just as the moments we live
whether a curse or a blessing, we know just one thing
this man could not take it, and preferred not to live
at only twenty and four, after his lifes final page
this man took his pen, and jumped off the 12th floor
when found at the bottom, the words that he bore,
on his forearm read, I can't write anymore.
