I’m just but a poor writer
No fancy words to use
No long stories to tell
No rhyming to boast of.
Just with me is a passion and an ever ending desire to produce.
Yet I slack of, and don’t study most of the time.
And so I will still be the poor writer, no matter how much passion or desire I have with me, till I find courage to change and accept the reality that must be faced if I wanted to become better.
I refuse to take advantage of the help I receive from others. I take some but lose most of what I get. I lack plan, I mess up. Just always lamenting. Never working my ass harder.
In remaining a poor writer, I witness wars here and there. At the bottom or at the pit of my stomach, at the top or the highest point on my head, at my feet, and my periphery.
But those wars will never end I know. Because they will continue to argue like those blind men from Indostan.
So, yes! I am the poor writer.
And I will always tell it so like this.
Still I know that I might, at some point, not be the poor writer, which I use to tell myself.