The marks 

That bleed onto the

Clean, white page upon

The desk are the embodiment

Of the writer's soul, as they pour

Out, crying to be read, but be-

-ing denied the privilege, tossed

To the wind and left behind, 

No one caring no one who

Knows, except the person

To whom the soul 

Belongs.

Authors live to enchant others to read

But readers are hard to entice, I know

They don't realize that, to write, authors bleed

For all you readers there's still time to grow

All readers should walk in an authors shoes

Go home and type some words on a blank screen

Write for yourself or you'll always lose

Write where you cant be seen

Make time to write, you've only just begun

I never once said writing was fun

Once your book is done, you need send it

You wait for weeks and receive your first <em>no

</em>You forgot to bleed

When I write

My words feel stone cold

And lack true emotion.

How do the words spill so easily?

Of situations, I had never so much as brushed

Yet I cannot bring myself to write

Of anything but the things I write.

Please forgive me for my insolence

And brash actions

For continuing to write

About things

That I know I should not

But the words just won't stop

Flowing from my head to my fingertips.

But if I don’t stop

I fear

That the things I write would

Come true in my life

And rule all I have known.