The Disgruntlement of the Misconceived Writer

I am often misunderstood.

People say I am self-absorbed.

This seems true, but is not a fruit of careful examination.

My mind is my favorite place to explore

Because my dreams are beautiful and majestic.

When an idea kisses my perception,

I feel a pulse in my blood

Separate from any mortal actuality.

It possesses me, it ravishes me,

And I have no choice but to surrender to its force.

Nothing can stop me from writing it.

When an idea is born, it must be obeyed.

But I, not my mind, am seen.

I am insignificant, almost invisible in comparison,

But often loath to explain that to those who will not apprehend.

In truth, I am but a slave to the dictator which is my imagination,

Yet I am a happy slave; for my imagination

has always been my most pleasant earthly company.

It is faithful and trustworthy, never running late.

It does not betray me for another.

It does not defame me or cheat me.

It steals my time, but I willingly let it take

For it gives me far better gifts in return.

I would not trade it for all the world’s gold, silver, and diamonds.

I am often misunderstood, but someday all will be as it should

Because someday people will see

Not I, but the fruits of my imagination.


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