Poetry

Retrospect (#597)

I’ve been writing now for many years,
Through all the blood, sweat and tears,
Yet even still, the art of writing brings me joy,
Much akin to a child with his favorite toy,
Admittedly toys can fall out of favor as we age,
But that won’t happen to me and the blank page,
There’s always going to be poems to write,
And first lines born in the middle of the night,
There’s always going to be stories to tell,
And yet unknown characters who silently dwell,
There’s so much more that must be written,
Gah! Can you tell I’ve been muse bitten?

Any Thoughts?

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