The Writer

He's lived too much a soulful life,
and he has the scars to show.
His brain is fat with memories
that need somewhere to go.

Words clutter his noesis
‘til his thinking is impaired.
Compulsions rule his psyche;
ideas have him ensnared.

So he pummels at his keyboard,
inhales his cigarette,
and pours out his expression
along with blood and sweat.

His fingers are unstoppable
in this race against his age.
Words spew from him like molten rocks;
wisdom flows as from a sage

Food is wasted on him.
Time ceases to exist.
He has to get this chapter done,
and so he will persist.

His wife tries to show affection,
but he doesn't respond much.
He prefers his cigarettes and scotch
to any woman's touch.

The keyboard yields to his fingers.
He must evince the tempest in his head.
He'll write incessantly throughout the night,
‘til one morn they'll find him dead.