Writing...

It runs like blood,
traveling through my veins;
leaking from the pen tip
on the paper leaving stains.

Sentences they form.
Plots they make.
Structure is born.
Characters it creates

Love is made.
Tradgedy's just there.
Comedy is happy.
Contemptness-it tears.

The power it holds,
people are swayed;
Nothing can break it.
Their own thoughts are frayed.

Fiction's the world.
Literal it's not,
but people are lost
and caught up in thought.

"Come back to reality,"
I call and I plead,
but nothing is shown
from my small little dead.

In a fantasy they live
nothing can help it.
They that are lost
can never hope to quit.