You asked me to described a writer,
But I can’t.
Because I don’t write 300 hundred page novels,
Or world famous poetry,
And that is kind of writer,
You want me to describe,
And I can’t.
But I can describe me:
A hot coccoa addict,
Often running on five hours of sleep,
Staying up till 2:00 am,
For my best inspiration.
I don’t focus on schoolwork,
As much as I probably should,
And though the thought of a science test,
Hovers in the back of my mind,
My poetry is my outlet,
And therefore out ranking.
The house is asleep,
Way before my head ever touches the pillow,
And most of my sleep shirts,
Have brown stains from coccoa,
On the frustrated nights when it spills,
And my inspiration is stuck in the back of my head,
Not wanting to come out.
I can describe my friend:
Who writes about her one true love,
I can tell you about the amazing bloggers,
I have come across,
And the tucked talents hidden in plain sight,
But I can’t tell you about J.K. Rowling,
Or someone else,
And I guess that is who you want,
I cannot describe a writer.