Most jobs seem to work the same.
Work until you're old,
And spend the rest of your days in quiet peace.
When does the work of a writer end?
Every day new words continuously come to me,
Sentences forming every hour.
They never stop,
And I like it that way.
Forever having something to say,
Something to show.
On days in which I believe I have lost it all,
Words come to me.
Without fail, they always appear in my mind.
Maybe it's random,
Or maybe it's a reaction set off by every event.
Maybe it's a sign that sadness,
Sadness that causes depressing creativity,
will plague me forever,
But I refuse to believe that.
I believe that as a writer,
I will never stop writing.
Because while an office job grows stale,
And while businesses shut down,
My mind will never stop creating words.
Sure, maybe at one point, people will stop listening to my words.
That does not mean that I will lose them.