Around here strange things can happen, spoken words can stretch on the wind,

One can see them forming then change their meaning, fade away and begin again,

Multiplying falling over each other, an endless tired less production of the mind,

Then out of the blue a sentence forms, and so an inspiration of a different kind.

A sharp pain brings him back to his senses, just as an idea had begun to take form,

The teachers cane quivers in front of his eyes, as pain deepens and moves up his arm,

Once again pain locks the door shut in his mind, a system that will not forgive,

Has no time for poets or day dreamers, not all the way down here amongst the pigs.

For years and years the door stays shut, the system demands you must pay as you go,

Get a job son’ it’s the trades for you, it’s your only option as your grades will show,

And it’s off we go into the safe world, hard work will always bring its own rewards,

A good tradesman confident in his own skills married with kids a fine house and all.

The currents of life sweeps us all before it, and finds each one of us our own shores,

We should be grateful for every break we get; still something hides behind that door,

Now working class thoughts occupy his mind, a mortgage to pay, educating the kids,

Working class pressures in a working class sty, life carries on down amongst the pigs.

One morning in the early hours for no reason he goes into the toilet and sits in the dark,

Something is happening and he cannot explain it, his mind feels like its tearing apart,

Four a clock in the morning sitting at the dining table, the door finally swings open,

Words are tumbling thru like a waterfall, as untold stories spread out before him.

He grabs a pen and paper and starts writing; some ideas are just totally insane,

Then he realizes that’s just the system speaking, there are no rules in this game,

After an hour of writing out ideas, he finds it hard to believe that this work is his,

This world will never look the same to him again, even down here amongst the pigs.

Life carries on only in a higher gear, except now the waterfall has become a stream,

Sometimes the door opens while he is at work, sometimes it opens while he dreams,

Whenever, whatever he just lets the words flow, wherever it takes him he just follows,

Sometimes the subject matter can be quiet dark that even he finds it hard to swallow.

The subconscious has no boundaries, no rights, no wrongs, no high moral grounds,

It can also bring forth stories of great tenderness, even true love can be found,

To him the biggest reward is writing it all down; he has no interest in making it big,

He gets great enjoyment from his own creations, finds inspiration down amongst the pigs.

What has a published and unpublished person in common, not much or so it might seem,

Except at some point they were both the same, a door opens and they follow their dreams,

Some people struggle all their lives, desperately trying to prove that they can write well,

Success amongst their peers means everything; to be unsuccessful must be a living hell.

Can you imagine not been able to read or write, having a door that will never open,

Stories would have to be remembered word for word, not written down only ever spoken,

With millions of people writing around the world, what a wonderful story that really is,

Well this little man is quiet contented to be here, happily writing down amongst the pigs.