there he sits,

the brooding writer,

poor soul, so lost, so torn,

writes sorrow, nothing brighter

there he types,

furiously clicking away,

he is the key to the mind and heart,

he will show you the way

there he ponders,

'what shall I concoct now?'

never starved for ideas,

never breaks a sweat upon his brow

there he plans,

look at him go!

what will he result?

who can know?

there, he finishes,

puts the icing on the cake,

the masterpiece is finished,

now, he'll take

there, he basks,

engulfed by praise and cheer,

pelted lush with awards,

yet something's wrong here

there, you see?

his creative license gone amok,

copied right off the front page,

now he's stuck

there he fumes,

lost it all to a clever observer,

no credibility left for him,

swept away by the fervor

there he hides,

back in obscurity, so sad

trying again to conjure the best

the world has ever had