The Writer

I walked up to a person, he whispered in my ear

He said: “hey, lady, come over here.”

He lead me towards a strange place and I decided I would follow

It was a small tunnel, where the darkness seemed to swallow

I started getting nervous, like there was something to be done

But then again, in a fight, he would have won

So I decided to keep going, trying not to look back at the pack of people swarming around

The tunnel seemed to lead no where, only into the dark

But then I finally saw a spark . . .

I was nervous still, of course, wanting to turn around, but I followed the man into a room

I just hoped he didn’t lead me to my doom

Inside the place, there sat a writer, writing endlessly with a pen

I looked down at her papers and what I saw was strange, I could’ve sworn it was the exact turn of events, but then again . . .

No, it was my situation– she wrote down everything just as it happened

Even my process of thoughts . . . then she turned around with a cat in her lap and

All I could think of to say was “h-h-hey . . .” and it seemed like this was the right way

I looked back at the man who lead me, but he was no where to be found

I decided I’d stop messing around

So I asked the writer her name, and I found a dilemma . . .

She said her name was Jemma.

 

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