A writer’s drug, from memories gray,
Away from which he can seldom stay…
Writing isn’t a silent game, a violent game that is played again
When does a Writer really write?
When can you call it a real fight?
Sometimes you wonder if it’s fine,
Amidst the sunshine you strive to shine
But what can writing really mean,
If writing has never really your passion been…
A drug so dark, and for long it lasts;
A bottle of drug will impressions cast…
But now the drug awaits a feather dip;
Just like words are longing to be on the reader’s lip.
So will the writer finally write?
Or will the digital print win this fight?
Keep 🙂 Always