And as the words flow from her pen
She rewrites the universe again and again
And the pain which the outside world
has to endure is no more
It’s all swept away
By the words which flow from her pen
She stretches her vision still further and then
As the light starts to fade she chooses to stay
And this time reality is hers to design

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

#TheWriter 7/7

Now she wanders the streets in a dusty grey raincoat
Wrapped in a world she’s made for herself
With her eyes on her feet, she knows she’s a scapegoat
But the words that are hurled she keeps on a shelf
She bottles them up and seals them tight
Takes a sip from her cup and she starts to write

#TheWriter 6/

As the words flow from her pen
She rewrites the universe again and again
And the rules which the outside world
has to endure are no more
They’re all swept away
By the words which flow from her pen
She stretches her vision still further and then
As the light starts to fade she comes back home
But each time reality is harder to find

#TheWriter 5/

Her audience grew with her imagination
Each follower a feather propelling her flight
Like Icarus she flew, and each incantation
Lifted them together to dizzying heights
There were no limits to where they could go
Millennia or minutes, time changed its flow

#TheWriter 4/

As the words flow from her pen
She rewrites the universe again and again
And the rules which the outside world
has to endure are no more
They’re all swept away
By the words which flow from her pen
She stretches her vision still further and then
As the light starts to fade she comes back home
But each time reality is harder to find

#TheWriter 3/

She was seven years old when she first felt her powers
In front of the fire on the old leather chair
The tales that she told were like tools which were now hers
To amuse and inspire, or to challenge and scare
Delicious and strange, she started to see
The way stories can change what the world can be

#TheWriter 2/

As she enters the shed she finds it’s a portal
A gateway to worlds where no-one has been
It’s tangled with threads and she stays ’til she’s caught all
The wonders, the pearls, of her beautiful dreams
Then she gathers them up and she holds them tight
Takes a sip from her cup and she starts to write

#TheWriter 1/

> Unless he bite the hand that feeds him #TheWriter cannot live; and this those who would prefer him dead (so they can erect statues for him) can never understand. I remember #Faulkner's going once, rather improbably, to #Missoula, #Montana, and getting engaged in conversation with a lady Montanan who cried out at one point, "What can't So-and-so write a novel that would do for this part of the world what you've done for #Mississippi?
#LeslieFiedler in #Writers