Sometimes I believe writers are their own species,

That maybe we come from a different breed

Because real life has no appeal to me,

And normality is an anomaly.

I think in poetry and prose

And prefer to walk with the ground an inch below my toes.

I hold my pen like a cigarette –

A slow but steady path to death.

I have coffee for blood,

Old pages for brains

And I’m always happiest when it rains.

Some people think that I’ve gone mad,

But I think just the opposite of that.

Everything I read is a part of me;

I guess a writer is what I’m meant to be.


2 thoughts on “Species

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