The reason why writers choose this life,
It’s the freedom, no pressure, and ink pots as wife.
Paper as husband and stories as child,
Catharsis, madness, euphoria wild.
A streak of pain, four hours from start,
An aching hand, but contented heart.
Like a wailing baby, the dilemmas shriek,
No time to come, no day of the week.
Come when it may, cannot stop it then,
Seize paper, seize pen, spill it when.
No boundaries, no end, no limit to this,
Till empty ink pots linger bliss.
And what happens when, the ticking clock,
Brings along the writer’s block,
And the mind once filled, now runs dry,
Out of ideas, dreams run shy.
The best a writer, can do at this time,
Is chuckle a little, then sit sublime.
Elope whiskey with soda, perhaps an ice cube or two,
And sail the ship to get him through.
For really there isn’t any other way,
When fleeting thoughts leave nothing to say.
No sane man, will choose this road,
Of writers, or poets, but if you can afford,
To lose it all and find it still,
You’ll choose this road, yes you will.
A little madness is required, some knowledge too,
Only pages filled are friends for you.
But really, I think, this isn’t too bad,
In an ironic world, you’d be glad,
To choose this life, to hold this pen,
The master of masters, you’ll be then.