A Writer’s Biggest Nightmare

Jhon Mark A. Mercado @janmaaark

A writer’s pen can move on its own, when’s there’s something they don’t want to forget, when they feel so loved and they’re sure of what they have, when they enjoy the view of the night sky, filled with stars hopeful for days not lied, or when they see honesty, assurance, and loyalty, to someone’s eyes, and having them unsolicited.

But a writer’s pen can’t move on its own, When their heart races no more To the drop of the ink that strokes, Or when writing no more resonates That it make their hearts vibrate, It can be when they’re Sinking to the deepest depths, And their feet just carry them To their first death, Which they try to escape To no avail. And these are their nightmares, Deaths that’re uncalled for, Striking their veins first Down to their pens up to the tip core.

A writer’s pen can move on its own, when there’s a river of tears rushing through someone’s cheeks, or when the waves of the ocean don’t seem like the same one that speak, or usually when they’re trying harder just to keep their heads above water, and when they’re trying to find answers, to questions looking for no problem-solver.

A writer’s pen can’t move on its own, when the writer itself died surrendering to they’re inner cyclone.

limerick