The writer lives to waste his days,
Behind a pen and paper say,
Sits alone and thinks a lot,
Takes ideas and then he jots.
The writer is a bitter man,
So much failure, none understand.
Lives so much in isolation,
Some weird discoveries always grace him.
The writer works so hard you know,
His hand gets crippled as he goes.
And when that night sky falls on him,
He finds some wine and takes it in.
The words he knows from left to right,
How to use them, which will bite.
He smokes a drag then drinks some more,
Wonders why his problems snore.
How bitter that man is that day,
The day his mind feels like a play.
A sad sad story of a quiet man,
A lonely tale of lots of bland.
Yet when he hears the talk of some,
Of buying what and taking from,
He wonders what is wrong with him,
That he prefers to dwell in grim.
– Thomas M. Watt