Dead Writers

“What is your process?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“I sit down to write,

And every time like clockwork,

they come flooding in.

Four old, dead writers

Whispering, screaming, at me

speaking their own thoughts;

And I can’t stop them

They have their own agendas

dissatisfied pricks,

So instead, I breathe,

Give them the parameters

and watch them make art.

my talent is null,

truly, it’s all their doing,

I am just a door.”

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