Food, Drape and Home...
Neither a million bucks,
Nor the gold in my safe.
Caresses my jittery thoughts,
Reassures my dwindling faith.
Hungry mind often wanders away,
Quelling beliefs, finding logic.
Penning looming thoughts calm the feud.
Writing serves my appetite, writing is my food.
People mocked me, they shunned me,
I felt naked, without clothes.
Sewing pride inch by inch,
Draped semi-clad body in poetry and prose.
Vagabond I am, I ride high,
In the wasted highlands, I never comply.
Be in harsh weather, be in lost dome,
Writing shelters my body, writing is my home.
Writing to me is food, drape, and home,
And I shall write, write and write.
Gold, money shall wither away,
Live life in black and white.