There are those who sit with their laptops and tablets, Clothed in a scarf and an artistic hat of some sort. They ponder; leaving a stack of books beside them, Sipping their decaf as though they are literature personified. Posers... What works do they prepare, other than blatant copies, Perhaps a half-baked romance designed to woo a lady. So convinced are they, of their own aptitude; They are blinded by the beams of their burgeoning ego. For the writer is not the woman who is tapping away at keys, She is not the woman fervently reading with lens less glasses. She is not the hipster debating ancient literature. For she is a monster, wearing human skin. She is the deranged madwoman, eccentric, uncanny. She is the one who sits catatonic; An entire world of fantasy playing in her mind. She has gone through millions of scenes, Thousands of scenarios, hundreds of plots And dozens of characters. She is not the woman you expect her to be, For a true writer is utterly WEIRD.