It isn’t in the honour or accolades that a writer breathes,
It’s in the inner peace that writing brings,
I write to feel the warmth of the written word,
It’s effect on this cold soul within.
Many years of happiness and pain,
Maketh a writer more supreme,
A writer known for their writing will inturn,
Suffer many more years of happiness and pain.
How different is a writer from a normal soul?
How elite is this crowd that pride?
Aren’t humans a part of the stories we tell?
Aren’t emotions that we shamelessly sell?
Humans above humans, we know not what we think,
It is all for praise for a job well done,
While another human sits to decide, with malice even,
If what I write is in any way worth his while…