I draw my ink up from the well,
The dark abode of writers’ hell.
I’m never happy with my pen,
Lyric I write again and again.
I etch my thoughts far and few,
Suddenly I’m drowning in creative spew.
Clasping images, everyday things,
Attempting to spin a yarn that sings.
Scratching feelings on anything to sight,
Match box, receipts, literally anything to light.
I worry and read and read again,
Is this the one or another dead end?!
I will reap the benefits I do believe,
One day my work will be well received.
I have to have hope even though I dwell,
Striving for more in my own writers' hell.