Curtains brown and full of grime|
He sits typing his old type of rhyme,
Grey sky filthy old nets
As he looks at his bills nothing but debts.
Papers scattered books on the floor
Poetry in books he's written before,
Stories revised and revised again
Mostly in the days written in pen.
Rejected by publishers and establishment alike
Although pretty good told to get on his bike,
Years of toil tears and sweat
But he never gives up and has no regret.
He's not the kind to give up easy
Even though his room is cold and bleak,
He knows he's got the power of imagination
To write a best seller next week.
His creativity may not be as quick
As when he was young,
His thought pattern now a little older
Is not as quick but maybe a bit bolder.
But he deserves a bit of luck
For his determination when in the muck,
For utter loyalty to his vocation
There is no other word except dedication.
For words are the talking point of the universe
They can make you happy they can make you sad,
They give you fun times or maybe make you mad.
Love them or hate them write them in a book
They'll still be there when you want to take a look.
Looks just like my office LOL...
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