“Where is my pen and where is my paper?
I must write now – I’ll forget this later”
He looked at the white (of the page) on the table
And jotted down words of all he was able.

So scribbled he did and sentences made
He finished them off but felt so afraid
For what if the thoughts and the knowledge he had
Weren’t written so well on his new writing pad?

The yearning for truth that ran through his veins
Screamed out through his fingers and filled him with pains
But pain pushed aside, he pressed down his pen
Created those words, again.., and again.

Of all that he had, stored deep in his heart
It made him so sad but this was his art
And suffering quietly – his life filled with shame
Writing was all that he had to his name.

Cheap whisky bottles lay empty, alone
They helped his old heart turn into old stone
Though cold in the heart – his words retained heat
So just for tonight; death slept at his feet.


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