There's a thing called writing, and I do it with skill,
Everything I write is sick, doctors think I'm ill,
You ask if I'll keep going, you don't think that I will,
But I won't stop, not even when there's no beat to kill,
There's a fire in my pen, burning deep within,
With every stroke, my words unfold, a tale to begin,
I wield the art of writing, a skill honed with care,
Crafting verses that echo, emotions rare.
My words flow like a river, relentless and free,
Painting vivid landscapes, for all eyes to see,
Doctors diagnose my ink as sickness, they claim,
But it's passion that drives me, igniting this flame,
Doubters question my persistence, doubting my will,
But I won't falter, for my passion is an unyielding thrill,
Even when the rhythm fades, the beat grows still,
I'll keep writing, breathing life into thoughts until.
'Cause within these lines, worlds are formed and destroyed,
Emotions dance in cadence, like a symphony employed,
With every word, I strive to touch hearts and souls,
To leave an indelible mark, where inspiration unrolls,
So I'll keep the ink flowing, forging words that inspire,
A testament to love, pain, and dreams that never tire,
'Cause writing is my sanctuary, where imagination thrives,
And through the power of words, my spirit forever survives.
