The Writer

Hemingway once said,

writing is easy,

all you have to do is bleed.

Bleeding, though, is easy,

blood flows freely,

from the open wounds.

Writing comes from the soul,

not everyone understands,

the poet within feels alone,

the isolation soul crushing.

The words don’t come easy,

the visions not clear,

what the writer sees,

is lost in a sea, raging.

The old voices are heard,

you’re not smart enough,

you will never understand,

sit in the corner, stupid.

Yet, the writer writes,

the poet puts out words.

They are his only refuge,

from the insanity all around. 

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