Numbers
or figures, mean not a thing,
for we
measure in lyric, in rhyme, and by dream.
The
ability to flow and create all dependent on,
our
brain and pen mating—vivid imagery spawned
They say
our way is flawed and stagnant.
But I
say we're not weird, we're simply pregnant,
with
novels, poems, sonnets, and Haiku;
our
creative minds breed refuge for you.
Misunderstood
are we by most creation.
They
down our demeanor and mock our inspiration,
but we
press on although we're different from most.
Great
dreams we foster; endless potential we host.
To
recline and escape the mechanics of this life.
We
encircle the subconscious, removing mental strife.
To a
place far removed, where work doesn't matter,
they’re in
ecstasy, for we've now replaced the clatter.
They
read our content, yet they don’t appreciate,
the
anguish we endure, all to creatively procreate.
Lyrical
material, thorough and empirical,
to feed
the vexed mind literary cereal.
So when
you see us abroad and we appear aloof,
please
know our qualms do not lay with you.
Our
minds are probably in Creative Purgatory,
warring
with Writer’s Block to salvage our pens’ glory.
To my
writers abroad, of whom I speak,
you make
the world go 'round and you incubate peace.
You’re colorful
generators for all artistic birth…
The
complexity of your mind, transforming the earth.