It figures that I’m writing. I write like people eat Scratching so much graphite On the soft malleable Canvas of this page. What else can I do? I conjure worlds with The flick of a wrist In spite of boredom And monotony. I want to be God when I’m hunched over my Notepad not just the Same guy, but divine. I am the power, I build The kingdom. If it doesn’t please me Then crunch into the trash. Scores of soulless words I can Condemn or redeem. It figures indeed we are All small God- creatures, Clutching at the larger Throne with our feeble Grandiosities. We write Or paint or think our way Up the path to divinity. Alas, I am still hunching Over this book. I dart my Eyes toward the yakking T.V. It’s a mortal-making-machine. No chance at being God for a day. It figures that the days routine Should run without me tick, Tick, ticking away the moments Until reality sets in. But that is why The Pen is a magical tool.
I can eye dent if I the neccecity of creation sneaking of with a match of divine flame promethues with a pen who gets to keep his liver keep writing you do it well
