The anatomy of a writer

Source = Google

The slavering glance on the ascenting sun, a puff of smokes emanated,

the typewriter relentlessly working like a labour in the magnamious farms

The sun brings light,but as if the darkness in the back of her room was a metaphor of her.

Her pessimism was artistry as she carved words out of her calamitous abyss,

She penned love to hold it within her grasp, to imagine it when it was dwindling into indefinite cadences ,

She put her words as ointments to the burning flame of deception.

Legs dangling in this new dawn, her head slightly arched to the typewriter

fingers frolicing as each word drooped and embellished in a page.

Another puff escaped from her white lifeless lips, she doesn’t dream of skies or stars anymore,

She writes with not a drop of hyperbole.

Her mind is owned by satan and Beelzebub, dancing under a shallow light,

the parched tears are turning into a laughter.

Love was a foe,

It threw her off the shore

Thirty winters later, She can finally sleep in this beginning

to go to nowhere.