Look at them. Look at those eyes. There are things you could be sure of and then there is him.
A Writer.
If there are men who know him for reasons other than the aforementioned, I choose to let them not matter.
There are creatures warm and tender and then there are paintings and sculptures and what not.
He is neither.
He is not a man of art nor of prudence . He isn't a man of darkness . He isn't a man of faith. He isn't a man of reason nor romance. He isn't a poet nor a singer for the king. He isn't a melody that you sing. He is not a blanket when the night isn't warm. He isn't your coffee early in the morn'. He isn't your stringed guitar. He isn't your carpet of flowers. He isn't a beast and he isn't a dear dear heart.
He is a man of words.
He is the earth and the damned moon.
And all the stars in my not so blue-ish sky.
He is pain and he is pleasure and he is beyond.
He is a thought and a tender song.
He is silence when it blossoms on your tongue.
He is a ray of hope when the rains don't seem to stop.
He is the rain when they die of no crops.
He is the ocean when it plays with your soul.
He is an innocent baby when it stares into your soul.
He is the only thing that speaks to me.
He is the only thing I can rhyme around.
He is a jar of doubt and a bundle of strength.
He is my weakness and my strength.
He is patience for all of this world's chaos combined.
He is just a regular man.
No more no less.
He is a writer.
Does he write better than all my shillings combined? Yes, yes he does.
The most breathtaking melancholy stories. Tender and Cold. Very tender. Very Cold.
A Writer.If there are men who know him for reasons other than the aforementioned, I choose to let them not matter.
There are creatures warm and tender and then there are paintings and sculptures and what not.
He is neither.
He is not a man of art nor of prudence . He isn't a man of darkness . He isn't a man of faith. He isn't a man of reason nor romance. He isn't a poet nor a singer for the king. He isn't a melody that you sing. He is not a blanket when the night isn't warm. He isn't your coffee early in the morn'. He isn't your stringed guitar. He isn't your carpet of flowers. He isn't a beast and he isn't a dear dear heart.
He is a man of words.
He is a beautiful dream.
He is the sky and the sea when they collide into one.He is the earth and the damned moon.
And all the stars in my not so blue-ish sky.
He is pain and he is pleasure and he is beyond.
He is a thought and a tender song.
He is silence when it blossoms on your tongue.
He is a ray of hope when the rains don't seem to stop.
He is the rain when they die of no crops.
He is the ocean when it plays with your soul.
He is an innocent baby when it stares into your soul.
He is the only thing that speaks to me.
He is the only thing I can rhyme around.
He is a jar of doubt and a bundle of strength.
He is my weakness and my strength.
He is patience for all of this world's chaos combined.
He is just a regular man.
No more no less.
He is a writer.
My maker of dreams.
Does he write better than all my shillings combined? Yes, yes he does.
The most breathtaking melancholy stories. Tender and Cold. Very tender. Very Cold.
Sometimes my tounge finds itself weak with words ,but my dear friend if you could see through all these suspense in my heart ,you will find the epitome of pride for you and all the art you create.
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