You sit and you think
What opuss to write
You ponder all day
You stay up all night
Thinking of things
You're writing them down
Reading them through
You're wearing a frown
It doesn't look right
You start a fresh batch
It's got to read great
The words have to match
It suddenly hits you
Like giant hard ball
You have just written
The best opuss of all
Your feedback helps mort understand what's working
Genuine chatty man... Kik - madmorts
I write to many opusses. Each and every day. I write so many opusses. I have a lot to say. I write so many opusses. This I must confess. As one day my opusses. Will simply be the best.
I keep a little book, Where I write every word That I place on my Opuss So that they can be read and heard. But it's beginning to get full. And I'm starting to run out of ink.
I love to write; I love the way the pen moves across the page; I love the illegible scribbles of my mind; the formation of words, from the complexity of thought.
What if I write a poem at night. With the moon in sight. With the dark room lighten by a small light. Making that paper and those words in sight. I get ideas at night and I can't write it right away.
Gone are the days. The mystical ways my mind would play. The inspiration I would find from a topic on my mind. The kind way my brain would relay a message. The relationship of a related heritage.
I need a new subject to write about. Life love and fun I've totally worn out. Done a bit of erotic and a little bit of deep. And into my head you've all had a peep.
What is this about, What does this mean. I'm quite unsure, If it's being seen. What is the purpose, Of this quick rhyme. Is it to prosper, To live for a long time. Am I writing, For likes or love.
I'm popping off for a little while To have a rest and revive my style, My little head is really bare Like Hubbard's cupboard there's nothing there.
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