Sitting in a Starbucks on a rainy winter night-
Half-drunk cup of coffee, and a strong desire to write.
It seems that I lost something, a long, long time ago…
I used to be a poet, and the words just seemed to flow,
But now I’m like the runner, who’s running short of breath-
Just when he needs his second wind, he finds there’s nothing left.
Where did all the words go? What happened to the dream?
Like a train upon an uphill grade, I’m running short of steam.
I lost my inspiration, I can’t tell you where it went-
People told me I was gifted, that my words were heaven-sent,
Those words are long departed, there is nothing left to tell-
For a man who lives for writing, that’s a special kind of hell.
So where can someone go from here? What is a man to do?
I guess I’ll put my pen away, leave writing up to you.
I will load up my old pick-up truck, and pack my old guitar-
I may look for inspiration, or I may wish upon a star…
I may go to digging ditches, or maybe drill for oil-
And try to drown my foolish dreams, in the sweat of honest toil.
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