You say you really want me, but then you treat me bad.
You vow to show you love me, but all you are is mad.
You want us to continue, to give it one more go.
Oh man you almost had me; prolong this?  Yeah but No.

It’s true I’m not Prince Charming; my faults I know quite well.
But sharing life with someone, it shouldn’t feel like hell.
When two hearts come together, the two should be aglow.
So now you want commitment?  I’m sorry, yeah but no.

Do you recall our first date?  The night seemed to zoom by.
A movie and then talking, your porch under the sky.
I thought you really wanted, to cause something to grow.
But since you don’t respect me.  Continue?  Yeah but no.

To fall in love is easy.  To stay in love is hard.
Two must maintain a vigil, and always keep on guard
Or in the early hours, a tragedy may show
Since I alone am wakeful, Combat it?  Yeah but no.

I told you that I loved you.  I promised with a ring.
I said that I would write you, a song that I would sing.
But I have lost my balance, and you have left me low.
So cry your precious eyes out.  Affect me?  Yeah but no.

A writer writes.  
A writer writes when he wants to
and when he doesn't.  
A writer writes when he is inspired
and when he isn't.  
A writer writes when the words are flowing from his mind like moisture off of a waterfall
and when the words are as scarce as republicans in Boston.  
A writer writes because he is a writer,
not because there are people who will cheer him on when he is finished.  
Sure, most writers dream of the cheers,
but a writer who will be a writer tomorrow
is one who writes even when the fans don’t show up.  
A writer writes when everything looks hopeless
and when everything is falling into place.  
A writer writes as a baby coohs.  
A writer writes as a child plays.  
A writer writes as a teenager dreams.  
And a writer writes as a grownup worries.  
A writer isn't a writer because he was chosen.  
A writer writes because it is what he has chosen.  
What does a writer write when the words are scarce?  
Many scarce words.  
What does a writer write when the words are abundant?  
Words in abundance.  
A writer doesn't wait for inspiration to hit,
he writes until inspiration catches up with him.  
A writer doesn't write only when the muse is on duty,
he writes until the muse feels shamed and shows up.  
A writer does not seek fame,
though fame often seeks writers.  
A writer does not seek fortune,
though fortune too often seeks writers.  
A writer doesn't seek anything but the satisfaction of writing,
for fame and fortune are fickle and writing only for them leads to many a blank page.  
If I write something meaningful and it is not accepted,
is it no longer meaningful?  
If I write words never before combined,
will people rave over my originality,
or complain about my lack of skill?  
I am a writer and so it doesn't really matter.

I have the sickness it is true,
The one all of us writers do.
It causes us to lose much sleep,
As words and rhymes we ponder deep.
Although my eyes I want to close,
And let the stress of today go,
Before too long I start to rise,
To look for words without my eyes.
For it is with my heart I see,
The words I find in front of me.
No matter what method I try,
I can not make the words subside.
And so I find before too long,
My night of sleep has simply gone.

These words I see inside my head,
And by them I am surely lead.
The truth is that I have no clue,
Just why I choose the words I do.
I feel the rhythm in my heart,
And that is where my rhyming starts.
And so a pen and pad I find,
To scribe the words inside my mind.

But though I see the words you read,
It doesn't come so easily.
For even though my lines all rhyme,
To write each one takes lots of time.
I weigh each line, each word I choose,
So that the tempo I don’t lose.
And in the end I have some thing,
That makes the paper seem to sing.

The time it took to write this line,
I could have cooked a meal to dine.
But here I sit with pen in hand,
Trying to impress the man.

For this is what we writers do;
We live for words and not for food.
For food just gives us sustenance;
Words can give us eminence.

My babblings, my babblings
I cry out in terror
The thoughts of my soul
I burp out in error
My wisdom, pure wisdom
is hidden behind
the insipid, uninspired
notions of my mind