Writers write because it is concatenated with breathing and that connection severed is basically cerebral and spiritually suicided. And Opinions, let me call her Opi, got this right 😀
If I am a poet
I must not know it.
For with a propensity to rhyme
Comes the crime of showing it.
It were no sin
To say what you mean
In a world where thoughts are channelled
Through moral guardians whose minds are panelled.
But, I forever fail to please
In heart, in head, in manners of ease.
Such an oddity
In mind and in body.
Unrelenting Idealist
I am not your ideal anything.
I weaken, I scar
My dullness is
Unquestionably bizarre.
And yet, I write
For typing is better than to fight.
And not writing,
Might as well be dying.
What else is there in life?
When making things is your only strife?
