Smell it on my face.
Mortal beings begin to chase.
Writers and ink, creators that sink.
Taste the words like a dark cloud.
Hateful and lovely, we stand proud.
Through alleys of thought, gateways of love.
Someday our prints, will be written above.
But for now we wait, hope we clutch.
Our creative sides don't matter much.
As big books get big stores and we sit here,
fearing the day we will find the fear.
Writing and writing and writing more.
Our bindings of words follow the store.
Waiting that one day, it will be noticed.
Signs upon highways, waiting for focus.
But for now we sit, led on paper.
We'll have to wait, until much later.
As our eyes shut and our imaginations open,
our thoughts on future, remain frozen.
Emotions and devotion, to the beloved writer,
as we sit at our keyboards, beginning to ponder.
Our minds trail through painted nights and days.
The imaginations set ablaze.
And now we sleep and wait for sunrise,
as we close those thoughtful, heavy eyes.