My portrait as a writer

He is a thin guy with more bones than muscles.
He always walks in a hurry but is always late.
He tries to stand tall but he's only 5'6".
That is he, a smurf who never grows.

He wears square shoes, fabulously ridiculous and old fashioned.
He wears eye glasses, too giant for his bulging eyes.
He carries an orange notebook and a two inch pencil.
That is he, a fashion model at the wrong time.

He sleeps too early and wakes-up late.
A trouble maker everywhere he goes who wears a peace of loving smiley.
He bursts out with optimism but later cries and surrenders.
That is he, a indirect pessimist.

He loves to write weird and nonsense things.
He loves to write anything even the supid and absurd.
He writes everything to her delight until he becomes hungry.
That is he, a creepy write and a picky eater with an alien appetite.

He forgets everything more than once in a day.
He is not a Vegetarian and yet he thought he is a green leafy carnivore.
He believes he can't do anything right----never.
That is he, a walking inferiority complex.

He smiles when you see him.
He dreams at night and sings out in tunes at daytime.
Still, he thinks he's a simple guy inside.
He can't be anything else but ordinary.

He has the hands of an old man;
Yet, it weaves beautiful words nobody understands.
They are painful sometimes------ oftentimes.
Yes, he writes about pain. He feels it always(huhuhu).

He himself is pain.

At one corner, he smiles big enough to fool everyone;
And imagine mostly of things untouched by mortal hands.
That is he...
a writer who spews words more than a pen's lead could
leak...