Call it the art of telling a story, Call it an author’s despair. A pathway to glory, Or strings of letters, about which none seem to care. And yet we know, It describes the indescribable fear, Paints you a horrid picture. Leaves you with a pain so achingly clear, No matter how hard you try to maintain your fixture.
How can you ever understand its true nature? For what makes it so fragile yet unyielding, Is what makes mortally delicate and unforgiving. Although one might say its essence lies in giving My dear, truth I say, is hard hitting So here’s what I do when I find myself thinking Sometimes no matter how hard you try, There is only so much that you will know about writing.