Mort Rainey, or the sir of the nameth Rainey, Morton does not belong to me. Neither does the short story, or movie version of Secret Window (, Secret Garden). Hell, I don't even think it really belongs to those insane-iac movie people. Who it really belongs to is Mr. Stephen King, brilliant bright light of his era. Yaay! Snaps for Stephen!
Written of a Writer
Crazy, you say
Lounging, sleeping lazy
On the couch all day
Writer's block ridden
Trapped inside his mind's locked
The other part of him's on the outside
But still hidden
Raggy man clad in mystery
His fears increase just a tad
A tad toward insanity
His life's unraveling all over
Real's gone to fiction fast traveling
Nothing no more can he be sure
But still he fights it
The secret on his windowsill
He won't just sit
But stand tall
Take it like a man
Go against it all
All the feelings tense
But he will go
Hero fight the bad guy
On the TV show
Mort don't know
Confused psyco laying low
He'll end off good though
In finals, all that matters is the ending
All the evil good he's sending
It'll be good to have a easy-go close
He knows more than anyone will ever know
Now, wasn't that nice? A poem about a psyco writer, how cheerier could a little ditty get? I dunno, maybe you're not even paying attention and I'm talking to the air, or something similar to a brick wall. Whatever, I don't really care. You're at the bottom and end of the page, probably a centimeter away from the "Review" click-ie thing. So, click it and review! I'm waiting patiently by my computer.