My hand starts to Cramp as I finish my last line
The final line in over an hour and a half of writing.
The cold air attacks my warm hands,
making me realize how long I have been in the same position.
It always happens this way.
There's always a new day that brings me new thoughts
I must write them down-all of them
No matter how many times I have to revise
They can never be perfected, just theorized.
My readers know I am rather casual in my diction
however the editor in me cannot allow mistakes in a writer's conviction
I feel an obligation to uphold the conservative values of English Composition.
So I spend a lot of time correcting.
I am a gust of winter wind; clearing the fallen leaves from the street corners.
Making sure that I empty my mind of all ideas.
I salvage old remainders of thought processes left over from the division between my time and my entertainment.
When I have no more left to give
Like a Polar bear, I go into hibernation.
I continue this wintry analogy because as an editor-
I am cold.
Here I blow,
keys or pen in hand ready to make even the most critical readers my fans.
I drive through thousands of sheets to create the most serene pieces.
And my compositions warm even the frigid circumstances under which they were created.
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