There are days when the words
Curl up tiredly and slip into a corner.
Those are the days when my thoughts
Gasp for breath and never die .
Instead they throb within,
Swirling in the emotions
That grip their very roots and stifle them.
The night stares blankly at me
Waiting for me to sleep
It then passes on listlesly.
If only a writer loved me.
Not any writer though.
A writer with glasses perched upon his nose.
He would read between the silences,
All those limp thoughts ,
Sift them gently and lift them out.
He would wrap them in words and gift them back to me.
Or perhaps
He would just let them lie
Within the pages of a notebook,
To be read in better times.
The night stares blankly at me.
I wish a writer loved me.
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