In the mind of a Writer

Bent over a book, cigarette on his lips,

a dull black light glows above,

slow swirling smoke forming overhead,

a pen moves swiftly in his hand.

His every stroke, as sharp as sword,

in every thought a revolution lies,

His every line is a drop of gold,

in every verse the humanity dies.

His mind is like a beast of burden,

His eyes have stopped to blink,

His gaze can pierce through a mask,

or so he likes to think!

Every so often he closes his eyes,

for an idea's conception or it's sad demise,

hunting for thoughts within his boundless soul,

to produce that which the world has never seen before.

He listens to Zepp, Sabbath, Lemmy and Floyd,

even reads Hemingway, Tolstoy and Freud,

Dissecting every line they sung

or every prose so beautifully strung,

in search for something to match his mood,

willing to forgo his drink and food.

Tormenting his mind in search for thoughts

and baring his soul in search for words,

Imagining the most convenient way,

for the vital subject he must convey.

At last his thoughts are vomited out,

in blue, black, red or grey,

through the paper they look up and shout,

A final draft so carefully written,

which shines among the drafts torn and stewn about.

Another work joins the rest,

as the writer sits back at ease,

where does this piece stand he thinks,

Is this what he could do best?

At the end it is not for himself,

he thinks his work can inspire the world,

He let's it out into the web,

hoping the world to do the rest.

But morons are many, he knows, thoughtful few,

for this piece will be discarded too.