Writing A Book Poem by Bradford Poet

If i wrote a book,
Id probably get mixed up,
From chapter one to five,
My words could be,
Based on fictional lies,
Of a fantasy I made up,
Or the movies that muddled me up,
But it couldn't be a thriller,
Probably a good chiller,
With plenty of gore,
A creaking door,
With a green mouldy,
wooden floor,
My mind goes wild,
Flashing Mile after mile,
Words riddled up,
With a chilling giggle,
It could be A Ripper,
Or a monster,
To give a frightening shiver,
My minds like a virus,
Growing by the mile,
Jumbled words,
Id be every hackers curse,
But that is my brain,
It words with so much strain,
No wonder my body,
Is so run down,
Flooding with pain,
But hey what the heck,
I will live till my hands sheik,
Writing so fast,
Their is no time to relax,
Poem after poem,
My book wouldn't stop growing,
Hmm better take a break,
Before my phone overheats,
Giving a warning beep,
Because I type till it breaks,
Or till my fingers ache.