A poet hammers into his efforts
Whimsical wishes bled for at night.
Slays the dragon of disappointment
Over and over until
Some tender good seems to flow from the kill.
Only then does there come any light.
The tune is laid down and the melody flows
But the lyrics won’t come, something’s not right.
Is the author too close to the theme?
Oh, not writers block again
He bites the bullet and picks up his pen.
And works out those lyrics long into the night.
A novelist weaves all his stories and tales.
Bold Ideas swirl, imagination’s alight.
But so often a writer’ true demon
Is one he can’t seem to throttle
The evil genie that lives in a bottle.
Too many authors, it seems, lose that fight.
A soldier reads a sad letter that starts…
“Dear John” through tears that are blurring his sight.
So he gets out his pen and some paper.
Now hell-bent and determined
To pen love’s gentle prayer as a sermon
For this time, it seems, he must write the good write.