I sit at a round writing desk,
With nothing but a pen and paper at my disposal.
There is no one else in this blank, bare room.
Yet, I am not alone.

The pen leaps from my grasp.
My mind races and ideas scatter across the naked floor.
Mountains of plots rise from the ground.
Exposition, Climax, Denouement; I am not alone.

The story tells itself; it’s coursing through my veins.
The words flow from my fingers,
And cascade effortlessly onto the paper,
Filling me with sheer pride and confidence.

The pen is flying now.
It disregards the notion that its story may not be told.
It soars over the oceans of obscurity,
And bounds into the lands of eminence and recognition.

I am not alone.
For my words, though undiscovered,
Fill every empty space in the room.
They are sprawled across every wall,
Like paint cast upon a blank canvas.

I sit at a round writing desk,
With nothing but a pen and paper at my disposal.
There is no one else in the room.
Yet, I am not alone.