An art.
A craft.
Much as a sport.
And a task to stay at it.
Writing is addicting.
Like a drug a writer needs.
Unable to quit.
More than a habit.
It is the breath of life.
Feeding the mind.
Until the words a writer finds,
On their own begin to breathe.
Leaving the writer,
Behind.
As if a tool to use.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem