Words from the Heart.
They hold the pen between their fingers
And they begin to scribble;
They let the words flow on the page
Till their fingers become crippled.
They spill their hearts onto the paper
They let out their soul while they write;
They get an idea in the early morning
And don't stop till the dead of night.
It's as if the paper is their own skin
And the ink is their very blood;
Without it they'll be suffocated,
like drowning in a flood.
These people aren't so tough outside:
They may not be like fighters.
But inside they are geniuses;
These people are called Writers.
And they begin to scribble;
They let the words flow on the page
Till their fingers become crippled.
They spill their hearts onto the paper
They let out their soul while they write;
They get an idea in the early morning
And don't stop till the dead of night.
It's as if the paper is their own skin
And the ink is their very blood;
Without it they'll be suffocated,
like drowning in a flood.
These people aren't so tough outside:
They may not be like fighters.
But inside they are geniuses;
These people are called Writers.