soft russ ink spills. ink. ramblings from/me

People say great writers are born from the
Delves of their personal experiences
That supposed truth
I deny with absolute obstinateness
Cant one step in anothers shoes
And begin a tireless walk
Sketching and filling in colours
Almost believable (like the real painting)
And possibly rich and pleasing to the ears of the crowd?
My pen lifts and thumps down upon the paper again.
Each stroke,
Seldom my own (experience)
But as I grow older
With each passing year
There are much more rooms of moments to pour on half filled
Journals
After all, what would people want to read
A defect of choice
Or the real inner workings
Of another
After all, that was what made the world go round,
Didn’t it?
But then again
The tales and flights of one’s imagination soar higher than any other
And brings one into another world altogether
From which a single canvas can bring about an immense appreciation
For God’s handiwork of man’s mind