Greena's Blog
Random poem I wrote

Random poem, The Mind Of The Writer.

Always with a pencil,
my eyes keep seeing words
forming stories,
ideas keep on pouring in.

Erase a hole through the paper,
Writer’s block my foe,
instruct the pencil
to dance with the pages,
a most creative ballet.

My mind is swirling all the time,
all I can think of is fiction.
Poems string themselves together,
as for stories, the endings come first.

A sentence will pop into my head,
coming from nowhere.
About death,
about life,
about fear,
about strife.

I’ll look at a word
and find inspiration.
Shakespeare’s a genius.
Forget about Einstein.

Think you know darkness?
Write about fear?
Inspired by Edgar Allen Poe,
one to admire.

But I’m not famous.
I’m not like these writers.
I am unknown,
just a simple dandelion
in a field of yellow.
Don’t stand out,
Just one of the others.

But I’m not fading anytime soon,
I’m not going away.
Wont disappear,
won’t blow away with the wind.
I will still be standing.

Among the monarch butterflies
I am the swallowtail.
I’ll stand out,
won’t go with the flock.
You’ll know it when I’m there.

Of course you know
I am the one who paints with letters,
who dreams by day, not night,
pencil always in my hand,
I may be the same as the others
on the outside,
but inside my mind is full of colour
in this black-and-white world.

This is the mind of the writer,
you know that we’re all mad.
All writers stand out
without standing out,
are known
without being known.

The wind will never take me,
I will not blow away,
I’m not just a dandelion,
I am simply and not so simply, me.