Many believe a writer’s life is divine
A blessing wrapped in muses & rhyme
But being a scribe is more like a disease
A hunger that grows & is never appeased

We carve out words, yet they never suffice
Chasing wild dreams at an endless price
Stories swarm like ghosts in a haunted night
Demanding release, clawing for light

The thirst for tales consumes us whole
An unquenchable fire that burns the soul
We ignore the world, let it drift away
Trading life’s moments for time to stay
Lost in the realms our minds create
Bound to a fate we cannot escape

Fame is rare, and fortune, rarer still
Most of us write for the sheer thrill
Poor & obscure, we toil in vain
But glory was never the goal of this pain

For the stories must leave, or the mind will decay
And though it is madness, we’d choose no other way