CluelessGhost

The Real Writers: There are those who sit with their laptops and tablets, Clothed in a scarf and an artistic hat of some sort. They ponder; leaving a stack of books beside them, Sipping their decaf as though they are literature personified. Posers... What works do they prepare, other than blatant copies, Perhaps a half-baked romance designed to woo a lady. So convinced are they, of their own aptitude; They are blinded by the beams of their burgeoning ego. For the writer is not the man who is tapping away at keys, He is not the man fervently reading with lensless glasses. He is not the hipster debating ancient literature. For he is a monst