When not a single word is written
Or a masterpiece is compose
His heart is anything but smitten
when an inspiration could not come close
He rest his head on the pillow
With only one thing in mind
To let his potential thrill go
Or let his imagination unwind
He thinks of the “what ifs” and “could have beens”
And the riches they could have brought
As well as the kings and hooligans
And the morals those characters would have taught
He fears the lack of a plot with a twist
and the opportunity of all the success he would miss
But it appears that with a stroke of his wrist
His worries are now vanquished to a mist.
With the aid of his magical pen
His ideas can now come to life.
Even if they descend to a tragical end
He writes all night with true delight
For a true writer can not sleep
If his beloved pen is still full of ink.
For as long as his beloved pen is full of ink
The writer has the night with plenty to think.