Poem #318

Life damned me to be a writer.
The curse of soul that never rests,
even when it’s worn out and torn
it still searches for new inspiration
and the piper is waiting to be paid.

If it’s beauty, if it’s pain, if it’s love or hate
It’s all words on a paper,
ink blood red, tear stained paper
the desires and memories of a wanderer.

The self is lost at the pursuit of leaving
something behind.
A life of sacrifice because art comes at a price.
I am an author but beyond that I am no one.

You can buy my book on Amazon by clicking: Rehab

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