The Writer

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I walk down the street,

My eyes fixed on those passing by,

Examining the nuances of each face and wondering,

What others are thinking?

Inside my mind,

There is a constant battle,

Between reality and what my mind creates.

I can't turn off the voice,

That feeds me ideas.

I walk down the street,

In my own world,

A better one.

In my mind there are,

A million different ideas constantly floating around,

waiting impatiently to be discovered and given life.

I walk down the street,

Always watching and wondering,

How would I describe this?

I see all of the colors around me,

Some imbedded in the in the pavement,

Greys, blacks, brown.

I walk down the street,

I see compelling people and in my mind,

I create an equally compelling personality,

I forge a new life for them.

Giving them the life I believe they should have.

I walk down the street,

Cherishing my time alone,

Time to think.

I walk alone but yet,

I am never lonely.

I walk down the street,

My hand in my pocket,

Stroking,

The leather bound book I always keep close.

It gives me a warm feeling,

I am most content when I know it is near.

The ideas want and wait,

To be translated onto paper.

I walk down the street.

Inside the mind of a writer.





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