It's not work, if you sweat and bleed words.
Thoughts and ideas pour out of me,
almost in an unconscious way.
I try to imagine my life three hundred years ago.
Would I be locked in a dank, soulless room, with other creative dreamers?
Or ignored by the upper class because of my thoughts and ideas?
Everyone's a little loony tunes.
It's molding your craft into something beautiful that counts.
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