We are writers, and we are

dead.

You coax a breathing thing out of your

words, descriptive and

not always

beautiful.

If we were painting you would have a

modest canvas and draw

lifelike portraits.

Like the Mona Lisa.

You write because you want,

you expose the darkness of

humanity and our mortal

being on this plane of existence.

you bring forth with you

the representation of all the

broken dreams

painful memories

frustration.

I? I don't write.

Not the way you do.

Nothing I could put down

pen-on-paper

will ever hold a

candle to your

unashamed burst

of words.

If we were painting I would be

The abstract.

Large canvas, and a small hint of

light grey splashing the cloth.

I don't write.

Save your breath for

the more artistic

the eloquent

the elegant.