Writers

Writers

I had the wallet but in the sudden misery

My feeling was not in the Auschwitz or Nashville

My life was teared after an expensive surgery

My life changed after my car stolen at the hospital

All people around were suspecting our money and us

Me and my wife had the mafia trouble all day long

I was nothing but an innocent home patient figurine

For few months but we did nothing really wrong...

Still I had the money to spend, hee yahoo!

I set my chair next to my queen-size bed seat

I started typing and writing with the ink bin

Thus, I succeeded as the writer typing beautiful sonnet!

Another song was like this, I had the war time

I escaped and wondered around with my laptop

I only had money and some memory cards to save

The extra battery no more but just type and asleep

Not yet to Auschwitz? How come? We made our ways!

We had searched, escaped, run-awayed, and found a shelter!

The writers, we say, our gentlemen and honor ladies!

What is the difference of typing and wring styles in the shelter?

I see the views, more harsh in the environment with no food

No more sleep, but running aways, sending messages abroad

Die? We have the hands, already gone is one, just one hand!?

Still, we mumble, and mumbling is the key of voice stroking sound...

Writers, what is the way of being a writer, by alone or by...?

My heart completed in the words like a cricket chirping li li li li... 

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This is a poetry included in my comnig poetry book, Not yet to Auschwitz!

The meaning is the comparison of two types of writers but the writing and writer definition goes the same way..

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