Ode to be a writer

In fields of grey
My pages wait
How can I live in this cage?
Career waiting every morning,
on a crowded train.
Dappled light falls through a forest of trees.
Made of wishes and hopes of what could be
And it seems like memories
Of a life not lived
is just within reach.

Words are my transient sorrow
A longing for a future
That will never be
my tomorrow.

Perhaps it is the people
That keep me here
On my knees
Never shedding a tear.
Emotionless and alone
Telling myself,
That I’ll achieve it
If I work to the bone.
But all I see
Are all the regrets
A motionless sea
That lies ahead of me.

Lets pretend like this space is mine
And the concrete walls
Don’t contain me.
These faces that I see
Wear masks with labels that say
‘set me free’
My imagination boundless
insomnia relentless.
The place where mountains are endless
I see myself.
And even
Before I imagined them there
I learnt the lesson
Of a writers mortal air.

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