When I get home,
I drop my stuff,
Mumble a “hi”, or “hello”
And speed straight up to see her,again.
She’s been the best thing to happen to me.
I’ve learned much from her, like how to talk to a girl
Or that various cats can be quite hilarious.
She always has something new to show
Yet knows what I like, too.
She won’t judge
(except in some cases.)
With her, I can find friends,
Have the life I want to have so much,
Let the pressure only be the next level to beat,
And control a world at my fingertips.
Her, with her square nails that clack,
Has showed me that , really,
Reality is quite
overrated.
The writer's dream by TheCriticofInnocence, literature
Literature
The writer's dream
I wish I could write.
Like Poe, who gave a terrible fright,
Or Snicket, whose villain was always in sight.
Maybe Rowling, whose young boy didn't die,
Or Fleming, who created the most famous spy.
Oh, how I wish that my skill was akin
To those whose great writing they spin
Could pull almost any reader in
To worlds where most books are uselessly burned,
Or where the One Ring should be forgotten and spurned.
But, alas, it has not come to be
Since my writing is poor, as you already see-
A curse in which I might never break free.
And so I dream each day and each night
For the day I can write.