Day 258: Poor Man's Writing

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to be able to decide on what you want to write. What you want to capture in the hope that it relates to those who read. For me it is an attempt at being able to capture a piece of your soul, it ages slowly, but it never seems to grow old. The robots we build, the games we play, and the conversations that I sometimes have at the end of days. I am short of word times, I am a poor man writing with what he has and sometimes in moments of need. So I keep coming back to you, in colder winter mornings or summer sunsets alike, wherever you may be when coming close or sometimes losing sight.

Poor Man's Writing
If I could hold them forever these rags & riches of mine
These ups and down that lie around, I could treat them just fine
I could move around in melodies just written on this page
After all, I am a poor man's writing, with feelings that never age

So faintly I move, from my mind to yours
On a cold winter night, I walk in through doors
I am the little bit of warmth that is left in a hug
That extra something you hear clear, when the world unplugs

These are poor man's writing, one who is at loss of words
Who has only written in pieces yet, for now only a third
Who has collected bit by bit, things that fit in a rhyme
So he calls them neither his, neither yours & not even mine

When much was written to the world's surprise
About so little that was left, so little that survived
Meanings refurbished on this poor man's canvas as he writes
He talks of what used to be, and how he has won every fight

They are called the poor man's writing because they are honest at best
But so few will ever listen to it, or even let him write the rest.