Call him a writer, call him a fighter
He'll just sit there and flick his lighter
Call him a poet, he'll laugh a bit
Deep inside its true he knows it

They say he's a man of his time
But to himself he lacks the words to rhyme
Some would say a true visionary
Born from words of the dictionary

A man raised on a hard grown spirit
That gets high off his own lyrics
Even through a smile he’ll deny
That his own words can fly

Those who know him call him out
But he hides in the shade, so no leaves can sprout
Ideas locked in the mind of his own
Words and letters that could never atone

Atone the deprivation of his creativity
Until then it'll stay locked away in captivity
For how long? Noone could really know
Because to himself, he has nothing to show

Call him a denier, Call him a liar
Tell him to show his true desire
A writers' high, its words he feens for
Call him a coward for not writing anymore