ODE TO MY WRITER FRIENDS

He sat at the keyboard, his head hanging low

And stared at his laptop, his face full of woe

Where was his muse?

Where were his words?

He’d not written a thing

Since June twenty-third!

Still, he sat down each day

In front of his screen

He sat down to write

And wrote not a damn thing!

I’m a fake, the man blubbered, into his beer

A fake and a fraud; it’s perfectly clear!

I’m not a writer; I may as well quit

This novel is crap! This novel is shit!

But he kept getting up and he kept sitting down

He worked on his book from sun-up to sundown

He kept the big dream of his novel in sight

And worked day and night, with all of his might.

And one random morning, just after five

He woke with a thought he just HAD to test drive

He wrote down some notes and he carved out a plot

And in all the weeks after, he just couldn’t stop

So that’s what you do when you think you’re a fake

You keep showing up even when your head aches

Cause you’re going to get through it; you’re going to win

So stretch out those fingers and hold up that chin.