Exaggerating, is a way
To make situations, and to progress the day
Exaggerating, isn't the way
To fool people, make them yell;hey!

Talking, is a way
To express, and to convey
Talking, isn't the way
To bore people, all the day

Writing, is a way
To help creating, your say
Writing, isn't the way
To pass seasons, whether December or May


|AB|

There once was a man named Bobby
Who was bored and needed a hobby
He sat there and pondered
He thought, and he wondered
But nothing came to him all day.

So Bobby decided to write
But none of his words came out right.
His thoughts tossed and turned
And his first drafts, he burned
Because he felt his work was trite.

Suddenly, the room filled with flames
And he knew his first drafts were to blame
He tried to escape
But he was too late
And soon he screamed with pain.

He died later on that day
And his story goes on to say
Take pride in your work
And all of its quirks
Or soon you will leave the same way.

She picks up a pen,
a whirlwind of words fly around her head.
Her stories are written but not really read, as she plants her special words in her book.
She pulls her little book closer, as people are wondering why, she sits there and scribbles every day and every night.
Her throat swells and her anxiety kicks in, as worry pumps around her within.
She wonders what they'll think, is she weird? But she continues her poems with everything unknown.

I want a niche, a hobby, a habit, a speciality,
A Thing

I want to know myself, to be loved, to consume and to clutch
And for people to know who I am

Because it seems that all I am is a few words
sprinkled on a page and I want more.


n.v.