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The Writer
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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