If you’re wondering
Where my writing comes from:
I lie in bed
And read a book.
I keep reading 
Until my imagination
Latches onto a sentence,
Or a word,
Or an image;
Like ivy
Creeping up a wall.
An idea sneaks into my mind
And settles down
Before scattering little dots
Of imagination
All over the floor.
Then I’m gone.
It saddens me a little
That I don’t put pen 
To paper
But thumbs to a screen.
But it’s my little piece of work
And that’s what’s important.
And somebody keeps reading
And that makes me happy.

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