If I had a way with words I'd be a writer, an author or a novelist; what's the difference?
But I'd need an imagination too I guess
I'd let my words chase my ideas or is it the other way around?
I can't be too sure
I'd let my fingers do that little keyboard dance; type, erase, delete and backspace
Watch the story come to life
Maybe my own, maybe someone else's
Told in real time
Or an incoherent collection of memeories so fuzzy I gotta fill in the blanks
I'd laugh at my own jokes too as I typed
Then I'd promptly delete them cos they're not so funny anyway
Trust me, you had to be there
I'd welcome that insomnia though
You know the one
You've got work in the morning so you slide under the blankets
Then your brain forms a rhyme or two
And you think up anothor one
Commit it to memory so you can write it down tomorrow
But you get out of bed anyway cos you know you'll forget
Now you can't sleep but you can't finish the story anyway
Cos all you've got is a disjointed paragraph that makes no sense
Why did I get out of bed again?
You took too long now the story's all gone
Whatever you wrote down is all wrong anyway
So you delete, erase and backspace
Empty page, blank slate
That's why I'm not a writer. Or an author. Or a novelist
What's the difference?
