He sat in his own world <br />writing down the stories <br />that came to his mind. <br />He never watched time, <br />for him there <br />was no time. <br /> <br />He wrote stories of love, <br />of mystery and suspense. <br />He wrote of everything <br />that popped into his head. <br />He was not a lonely person <br />as his characters kept him company. <br /> <br />He wrote things <br />for every writing sphere, <br />but there was one thing <br />he could not write <br />which may come as a surprise <br />to everyone. <br /> <br />He could not write a letter <br />no matter how hard he tried. <br />His mind went completely blank <br />whenever he tried. <br />Yet he could write <br />just about everything else. <br /> <br />He could write songs, <br />he could write stories at will. <br />He could write poems <br />on everything, <br />but writing a letter <br />was something he could not do. <br /> <br />Now all who read this <br />might take it as a joke, <br />but it is very true <br />every word I have spoke, <br />and how would I know that. <br />The answer is simple it is me. <br /> <br />19 April 2008<br /><br />David Harris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-is-me-2/
