Play Away!

There is nothing to writing.
All you do is sit down at a typewriter
and bleed.
Ernest Hemingway
(1899 - 1961)

My writing habits started young,
As I to pen and books have clung.
I blame it on an old elf's taste;
A good mind's terrible to waste!

One Yuletide morn, when I was eight,
We went downstairs to celebrate,
To see what Santa left in glee
Right underneath our Christmas tree.

My older sister found a doll,
And I began to caterwaul.
For me, he left a writing desk,
A Santa prank I thought grotesque.

And yet, perhaps he showed insight.
For, then and there, I chose to write.
From diaries to journals filled
With ink and musings overspilled.

Now, decades later, I will muse;
My imageries may yet enthuse.
The doll has long been tossed away,
My desk and I, we still do play.