Tough Being a Writer

I am not talkative, I talk through the word,
I have feelings, the pages heard.
Inks scattered over the loose sheets,
lying around, all over, seizing my dreams,
waiting to be penned down, vigorously and neat.
I am not professional, it's my zest,
I rest to write, I write to rest
People may think of me being untidy, forgetful,
spending days so lost inside myself-
I may be stupid to some, for some, the lost soul,
yet my thoughts run, far more than my speed.
as I write, about the sun, or even the unwanted weed.
I write a letter, full of lovely words,
Forgetting the ability of the one who reads,
in return I receive an almost empty card,
It's such a pain to read, to comment, to see.