A Writer’s Drug

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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?

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Keep 🙂 Always

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