I was only half awake, but I just had to know

Had I really ended it with his beloved saying no?

I had made attempts at sleep, but simply could not rest

I was too unsure, you see, that I’d given it my best.

It simply eats your waking hours, and holds you in its spell.

The next words your fingers form, a story they will tell

It is a drive yu can’t resist, an urgent, pressing need

to get it down, lest you forget who did the awful deed.

This is the wondrous writing life, the passion you must share,

for shaping lives and destinies, of many a maiden fair.

It really matters Little, if your fiction turns out wrong,

because the writing of it is just where you belong.

Be it a poem, or a story, or writing based in fact,

your writing gives to it the life that it had sadly lacked.

Mightier than any weapon is the power of your pen,

to build worlds and destroy them, to decide the fates of men.

Every day you wake anew, your brain a seething mass

of written words, and plot lines that have not yet come to pass

All you ever want to do is avoid editorial strife.

to see your words, out there in print, such is the writing life.