We are the many who count as a few,
Who stay on the track when our lives go askew,
We are the writers, our weapon's the tongue,
We are the thousands that count as the one,
We are relentless and we will prevail,
Through thunder and lightning,
And dark, brooding hail,
So keep your eyes peeled,
For Opussian storm,
When we have been challenged,
We keep calm and carry on
Writing.
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Inspiration, a Small word, but it can be so Very hard to find.
Inspiration. Strikes. In the dead of the. Night,. Ungodly hours,. Or whilst I'm in. The shower,. My brain confused,. With lyrical. Abuse,. A to Z of verse. Put it together. Make words converse,.
The past, is the past. Nothing stays the same. Only so long things can last. And then will come the change. People come and go, Many different names.
A place of new, A place of old, A place of secrets, Told and untold. A blank white room, Empty, clear, You can forget- Everything here.
Just sit down and write, Forget about it all. If only for tonight, You could write till morning calls. Sit down and write, Just let your stresses pass.
To the poet words are more akin to blood, For without them he cannot become the man he should.
My love for Opuss is waning And yet I don't know why I still love words and books, stories Yet there's an emptiness inside And so I find myself detaching from The rope from Opuss to me As it grows...
I was never good at much With my words People I could touch It is my only gift My words can be Happy and emotive My mind and hand Are as one Towards the world of words I ran Opuss was the...
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