The writer’s mind will never be still, and I know it never will.
I’m running around in this world staying wherever I can.
Somewhere I don’t want to be, but I don’t have chance to change my plans.
I just have to dance or plant my feet, not too deep ya’ll.
I can say though, no matter what, I’m having a freakin’ ball.
So many people are intrigued by what I’ve seen, I wonder what they fear?
My adventures get me from there, or somewhere, only to end up here.
Then the danger begins, when people have a desire to become friends.
They realize that I’m not stable and there the story ends.
Trust is where I don’t fit in, they are people who trust each other.
I’m not on the side of truth, tell one lie, and then I’ve got another.
Why can’t they understand the life of a writer, they and I are not equal,
because if we were, our lives would be filled with bloody sequels.
Writers have to be travelers, carrying notebooks in their backpacks.
By evening, when my feet are tired, I write and then I hit the sack.