trees and thangs

Thoughts on ‘being a writer’

Some mornings

I spend hours in my head

Writing poems

Dancing with singed hearts

And kissing strangers.


Some afternoons

I sip lukewarm coffee and eat

Sour candy,

Talking to myself,

Spewing thoughts onto penned paper,

Daydreaming of editors

Fancying my plight

To be a writer.


Oddest occupation —

Fictionally, speaking.

No wonder

I crave touch

So desperately

The only true affirmation

Of my life’s work.

I hear you, they say.

I know.


Silent speaker of the world

I am

Sickly mind squashing


Hungry to try again, sometimes,

Provided inspiration.


Lazy, perhaps

Weird, perhaps

Maybe definitely special

They say.



I am a writer

Head inside a dream

Come true,

Or is it?

2 thoughts on “Thoughts on ‘being a writer’”

  1. Dancing with singed hearts and kissing strangers is how every day should start… And I hope that afternoon sour candy comes from a patch…of kids! Everything about this sounds right, familiar, frighteningly inspiring, and like the words of a writer letting it happen. Love it…

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