The Writer's Sonnet

The tiny taks of  my pen bring me joy
As my ideas flow from my shaky hands.
My mind does race with thoughts of many a ploy,
I must meet that bound to meet their demands.
Does this character need to be redone?
Or maybe this one, or the plot itself?
My work is confound, but I can’t outrun
My story or I will ruin myself.
Some love fantasy, others love romance,
The middle is where my sories call home.
A soft word or a quick flight of a dance,
These thoughts are nothing like an odd Poem.
Strange things there are in these pages of words,
Strange things that will only be seen through words.