Mistresses of our characters; hostages to our Muse
We murder just for another climax, shameless of our guilt
Rack our brains all day futile and then jolt up in the dead of night
Typing bewitched, as if we are fighting for our very lives
We tell everyone writing is such a pleasure
Without disclosing the torture of intermittent brain-deaths
Intellectual constipation they call it
We can almost smell the foul in our breaths
And when our work is out, we pretend to be brave
While in truth it is attention and praise we crave
Secret wishing as we relentless reload the page
To smile at a comment or fly into rage
We search for a word at the tips of our tongues
Yet it always eludes us dissipating all the fun
And though we have conducted exhaustive search for errors
We always find, after printing, there is invariably another one.
They say a new book is like a new baby
And we are the ones bringing it to life
Well, seems we are destined for constant labor
With no end in sight
But when our thoughts flash back to those creatures
Who scamper in the realms we create and share
We can only sigh and shrug
And go back to our computer chairs.