“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemingway
Create, create,
At least create.
Come out,
Expand,
See,
Express.
Touch,
Refine,
Just be your best.
Do something
Be something.
Anything.
Create, create,
At least create.
What else will I do with you,
Where else shall I put you,
Why should I carry you,
Keep you?
Create, create,
At least create
Dear Sorrow of Mine,
For what point is there to you otherwise?
Create, they say,
And you might get granted
A title, a name,
Some status and worth,
Your being an artist it might actually birth.
Fail, refuse, a wreck you’ll be,
Stranded at sea
Isolation stifles thee.
No nominations,
Just shadows eclipse spotlight rays.
So, create, create,
At least create
Dear Sorrow of Mine,
I beg you, please,
As over these pages,
Over this ink,
My battle rages
And I slowly sink.