It Is Me

He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.

He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.

He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.

He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.

He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.

Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.

19 April 2008

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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