I’ve met choices with dim decisions, at least a time or two
The moment was rash, but the consequences, unrelenting, sticking with me like glue
These mistakes have followed me as though they are my grim reaper
The bottles and blunts now set aside, instead inducing with pencil and paper
As soon as the lead and tree’s offspring converge, my hand begins to dance
Syllable after syllable, counting meter and couplets, my mind toils in a poetic trance
I tackle a rhyme at the end of each line and unravel symbols like balls of yarn Allegorical wonders are always at work in the mysterious vastness of a lyrical tarn
Literature is inspired by love and torment, occasions of joy or dismay  
The author conjures up these thoughts in his or her mind
Then effortlessly writes down what their mouth cannot say
It’s a way to escape, leaving reality for a stint, sharing with all what only you know
Once the piece is complete, the world’s eyes can marvel over your work
Contemplating and discovering the wooing words you elegantly sowed
Hallucinogens and needles, inhaling and injecting, certainly may give pleasure
But these illegal and pricey drugs are hard to come by
Where as writers always have their fix in a plethora
Though it may not seem it, when a fiend abuses, their brain is ransacked
Seeing precious cells go to waste
However there are no permanent effects to a writer’s drug
Because every blemish can be erased

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Donald Hall Margaret Atwood Maya Angelou Bob Dylan