Writers

The mind of a writer

Is a very troubling place, indeed.

It’s dark in there, very dark,

With a few scattered candles

That rest on the dusty pages

Of the unwritten, forgotten phrases.

The misplaced words

Hang in the air, like dust.

They whisper to each other,

Their never-to-be stories,

Like a song that rises and falls

With the flicker of the candle flames.

The chairs of the used-up ideas

Sit lazily in the corners,

Their cushions battered and torn

From the ever present prodding

For new eyes and cheek-bones.

New backyards and window sills.

Coffee cups litter every surface

With a calming substance long gone cold,

Conflicts that once held the heat of battle

Now stagnant in the quiet.

Yes, a writer’s mind is a very troubling place,

But the silence holds the stories

They would never dare tell