The screen clears, no pain or tears,
Cuts on the sears, a pool of fears,
Will they leave me, my rhyming spree?
Will I have to be, that leafless tree?
I’m eating a lot but I still crave,
Safe yet scared in my lone cave,
Will I just take a book to the grave?
Will this be all that I ever gave?
But then again, who knows the pain?
We write in vain, design? No, a stain.
Blunt is the wick, gone is the kick,
We hone till slick, click or no click.
They who know us know this,
Those who don’t are in bliss,
Irony is to sing one’s own diss,
Maybe, it’s good to be amiss.