“There is something odd about a person, who just sits by the computer all day long, sometimes, even the night and types in words to an empty page, yup, definitely very odd indeed, and that person, is me” Gun Roswell

I write, all the time

I write I write I write I write and I totally write
Just, because, I really don’t have any life
Therefore, it seems,I have all, of the time
In the world reserved for me, simply, to write

My day job, that once I loved, does not much count
These days, I simply do, the needed amount
My family, yeah, I have it, at least some kind of bunch
But they never really cared for me, that much

So I keep on writing, slowly and surely emerging
Deep, in to the many worlds, I am now creating
They seem so much better for me, better for all
At least, inside my own head, I am having a ball

But when, I sometimes come out, to the real world
I look around and see, that time surely has turned
And I am now, an outsider, standing there, observing
Never really participating, and inevitably, learning

That I, was left behind, so to the others, to be kind
I return, to my darkened room, stand, beside my desk
For me, there is no time, to stop and take a simple rest
Rather, I keep on writing, as it’s really the only thing

I am capable of doing anymore, because I can’t think:
I open a new page, a blank one, and start the one
Thing I am friends with, and the words are pouring
Now, like never before, because I am, always writing