The Writer

The writer writes by dim candle light
About the shame that haunts his lonely nights,
The writer writes by the open window
As the breeze threatens to further his woe,
The writer writes in an effort to prevail
Against the sirens that in the distance wail,
The writer writes about the turmoil
That has come from a greed for spoils,
The writer writes all through the night
Until the coming of the first light…

The writer’s pen is his only friend
And it will guide him until the end,
The writer’s pen is his cherished escape
From the cruel world’s jibes and japes,
The writer’s pen is his shameful addiction
That comes without a doctor’s prescription,
The writer’s pen scrawls about how
Its owner struggles in the here and now,
The writer’s pen is a gift and a curse
That can make things better or a whole lot worse…

The writer’s soul was once whole,
Writing about ambitions and goals,
The writer’s soul was once caring,
Writing about the love he was sharing,
The writer’s soul was once adored
By those he once held close to his core,
The writer’s soul was once the framework
He used to access the place where shadows lurk,
The writer’s soul is now a token
Of the life that has left him broken…

The writer’s writing is terribly frightening,
It scares its readers into hiding,
The writer’s writing is restrictively depressing,
It prevents cut throat emotion expressing,
The writer’s writing can make one cry
Because of the metaphor of the word ‘fly’,
The writer’s writing can make one drown
Beneath thoughts of loss and life under the crown,
The writer’s writing is his be all and end all,
His only way of recording his downfall…

The writer has committed no sin
In writing about a life yet to begin,
The writer has committed no atrocity
By living a life in absolute animosity,
The writer has committed no acts
That should cause faith in himself to be lax,
The writer has committed no theft
Of literary works more deft,
The writer has committed but one crime,
That is of being born in the wrong place at the right time…