What It Takes To Be A Writer
By Phill Senters
As I pondered at my desk today,
about what words of wit to say,
That’s when it came into to my mind,
what it’s like to try and be a writer.
What does it take, one may well ask
to perform this often thankless task
just to try and make this world a little brighter?
Across my office floor all strewn,
are little bits of paper
I have written words upon.
Lots of words are held therein,
waiting for the final toss into the garbage bin.
With accusation, now it seems
they’re staring back at me
I feel as if I’m being watched as I plan and think and scheme.
Should I pick them up and toss them out
when next I need some caffeine
from the coffee spout?
No, not yet, I may need one,
keep ‘em round a little while until I’m really done.
Lord, now look at that old silly clock
it’s running oh, so fast.
Time just never seems to be a friend
that’ll hang around and last.
Maybe that’s what separates
my future from my past.
Now it’s turning dawn outside,
I can see it through the panes.
The light brings all those noisy
sounds to remind me once again.
Looks like I’ll have to leave for now,
and do a full day’s work,
Before returning home again,
where these accusing words still lurk.
Waiting to accuse me
of slacking at my job.
Just because my eyes won’t work,
and my head begins to nod.
If this is what it’s gonna take, to forge a writer out of me,
I pray to God it happens soon,
‘cause I can’t take much more.
So I pick up those accusing words, still scattered on the floor,
and stack ‘em up as cleanly, and neatly as I can,
Because I’ll surely need ‘em when next I’m here again,
I know that they’ll be waiting
when I stagger through that door.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 5:21 AM UTC
What It Takes To Be A Writer
By Phill Senters
As I pondered at my desk today,
about what words of wit to say,
That’s when it came into to my mind,
what it’s like to try and be a writer.
What does it take, one may well ask
to perform this often thankless task
just to try and make this world a little brighter?
Across my office floor all strewn,
are little bits of paper
I have written words upon.
Lots of words are held therein,
waiting for the final toss into the garbage bin.
With accusation, now it seems
they’re staring back at me
I feel as if I’m being watched as I plan and think and scheme.
Should I pick them up and toss them out
when next I need some caffeine
from the coffee spout?
No, not yet, I may need one,
keep ‘em round a little while until I’m really done.
Lord, now look at that old silly clock
it’s running oh, so fast.
Time just never seems to be a friend
that’ll hang around and last.
Maybe that’s what separates
my future from my past.
Now it’s turning dawn outside,
I can see it through the panes.
The light brings all those noisy
sounds to remind me once again.
Looks like I’ll have to leave for now,
and do a full day’s work,
Before returning home again,
where these accusing words still lurk.
Waiting to accuse me
of slacking at my job.
Just because my eyes won’t work,
and my head begins to nod.
If this is what it’s gonna take, to forge a writer out of me,
I pray to God it happens soon,
‘cause I can’t take much more.
So I pick up those accusing words, still scattered on the floor,
and stack ‘em up as cleanly, and neatly as I can,
Because I’ll surely need ‘em when next I’m here again,
I know that they’ll be waiting
when I stagger through that door.