Writers and dreamers are the same,
Both strive to tell of made belief.
Though writers are those considered sane,
For they know of ways to contain grief.
Now, watch this dreamer start to write,
All the lies she spout like spite.
She coloured tears which turned to ink
As her pot of memories start to stink.
Such a life she painted bleak,
Boring tales and lines so weak.
Like dried up stains of typewrite ink,
Her dreams had started to deplete.
Now grief or not she tried to write,
Broken words had stacked sky high.
Her passion flees, her thoughts finite,
She no longer even tries....