In a quiet room, where the shadows play,
An author struggles, day by day,
To conjure words, two thousand strong,
In the hopes his tale will soon belong.
He dreams of King, with pages flowing,
Stories spun without his knowing,
How the words just seem to pour,
From some mystical, hidden store.
But our poor scribe, he wrestles still,
With every sentence, every quill,
His mind a maze, his thoughts a blur,
A daunting task, he must endure.
To keep the words from running dry,
He sets his goals beneath the sky,
With morning sun, he starts his quest,
Determined to give his very best.
He rises early, breaks the night,
With coffee strong, and candlelight,
A ritual now, to spark his brain,
To chase away the creeping strain.
A walk outside, to clear his mind,
Among the trees, the path defined,
Ideas bloom, like buds in spring,
And in his heart, the muse does sing.
He times himself, an hour or two,
A deadline tight, but nothing new,
For racing clock, he fights the tide,
And finds his rhythm, words collide.
He reads a book, a master’s work,
In every line, he’ll find a perk,
To spark his own, the fires bright,
To guide his pen into the night.
A sticky note upon the wall,
Reminds him why he loves it all,
The joy of tales, the worlds they weave,
The lives they touch, the dreams they leave.
And though the path is often steep,
He finds the strength, the will to keep,
On pushing forth, through dark and light,
Till morning turns to quiet night.
For in his heart, he knows it's true,
The only way to see it through,
Is word by word, and day by day,
To chase the dreams that never stray.
So with each dawn, he takes his seat,
Determined, strong, he won’t retreat,
For in his soul, the stories lie,
Waiting for the pen to fly.
