The Life of a Writer

Black roses bloom,
As the animals await human-kind's doom.
Bakers create the sweets that rot our teeth,
Butchers hang the dripping meats like a wreath,
Doctors search through the parts of us, looking for problems,
As cullers search all their items.
 
The plans, some devise,
With their new guise,  
Shape-shifting and tricking the past, by making a new back-story,
To escape their purgatory.
To dispose of, some believe is the only way out,
To end others, to let their story play out.  
 
Bleeding ink so intense it makes yourself cry,
People ask you, "why?"
Bleeding ink, just to know you're alive,
Feeling intensely, from the stories you contrive.
As an outlet to tell the world your secrets,
And for your fictional, but emotional, bullets.
 
Is the pen spilling blood? Or are you bleeding ink from your veins?
You can no longer see the differences each one contains,
Your pen is your sword,
And with each mighty word,
You shake the world,
Of paper, that lays before you, unfurled.
 
We all differ (just like everyone else),
Though we feed upon the treads that tie us to everyone else,
That sew together the quilt of human existence,
That we turn into pleasure or penance.
So is the life of a writer,
Just like an artist, paints a picture, that, although clearly described, someone new can contrarily decipher.
 
The writer studies and records the psyche,
As personal examples of the mentality of human-kind, same, and contrary,
You know if an apocalypse strikes, for the living,
You would be the one writing,
The scribe,
Their new histories, you would transcribe.
 
Light cannot exist without dark,
An end cannot exist without a journey upon which to embark.
Time's beginning cannot exist without time's end,
Foe cannot exist without friend,
The universe cannot exist, without somehow, to not exist,
Temptation cannot exist without the resist.
 
Cross your eyes, and dot your teas,
And stir them with the silver spoon you were born with, please!
It's really quite easy, says Bob (Bob's your uncle, by the way),
Just remember, stay away from the Recipe for Disaster, that's just your bread and butter, anyway.
You might occasionally have a flash in the pan, but don't quit your day job, for the next chapter
Of your life, because though you were born with richness of mind, not everyone sees it that way, rather.
 
Go forth you "black sheep", "weirdos", "freaks", "outcasts", "untouchables", "pariahs", and whatever else they may call you,
Go farther than you have ever been to!
Murder preconceived notions, stereotypes, clichés for clichés sake, and hatred of the well used cliché,
Write, as the world around you does decay,
Because you know your words will live on,
Long after humans have gone.