The tragedy of the left (past tense)

God, it's a warm October day
isn't it?
The heat wrapping around
like a ribbon
or maybe more like a noose

Not everything is doom and gloom
the sun still shines
for the time being

Nobody has a clue what you want
until you speak up
That's the beauty of thought
it's secrecy
and there are no mind readers

Each person is a story untold
a novel unrealized
a poem without verse

And existence as a whole is really just humanity
trying to pry details from the authors
so we can hear another good story

In that way
everyone is a writer
sitting at their keyboard
while they walk through life

The good ones often keep it to themselves
While the desperate ones put it in type

So even on too warm days
prose is in the air
when it's just another ho hum afternoon

Writer's block could never happen in reality