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.