He sits down on those lonely nights, Wondering if his mind is there or gone, He'll pull out his pen, paper and imagination, And write his words like a song, La de da de dum, is what he does always hum, As he writes away 'til the end And no matter how bad, he always seems to get applause, From every one of his caring friends Yet the words he creates do not arrive from his mouth, But they actually are found within the pen, Still he writes as the night becomes of old, He decides it's not right and tries again, Again and again he repeats this chore, Until he finally feels he has achieved his best, He'll put away his pen, paper and imagination, And leave it away from him while he goes to rest. |
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| The Writer |
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