The Writer

The Writer

 

I once tried to explain

To another person

What it was like to write stories.

 

You see, he never had written

A story- a real story.

All the things he wrote

Were just facts and numbers

And it was very dry, and no one liked it,

Even though he got lots of money for them.

 

But I did something different.

I wrote stories.

And he wanted to know how.

 

And so, I told him.  

I told him about my lovely friends

Who live inside my heart,

And whisper their tales to me. 

 

I told him about the landscapes

My mind paints inside my eyelids.

 

I told him about the weaving of words

Like a tapestry of emotions and images.

 

And he looked at me like I was quite mad.

“You have voices in your head?!”

He said, aghast.

 

“Well, yes,” I replied, “Don’t you?”

He said he didn’t.

 

He must be very lonely.