Writing Histories
Do people know
They write the history
When they pick up their pen
Late evenings and smudgy rooms
And uncomfortable postures
One pain and an era to un-love
The wait for “The End”
A hall full of applause
Fame comes handy, godfathers and
Their bitches are loving it
Where do I sell
Myself, my story
My pen and buy my name
In the history…..
Late evenings and smudgy rooms
Seven year old paper
Becomes more dull
When I write with a stolen pen
I wake up at the sunset
And sunrise takes me to bed
How much I sleep is not important,
Or let’s leave that for another poem
Living on the other side of the world
Dramatic but just another impact
Of the chips getting smaller
