THE WRITER’S LAMENTATION

I got up and wrote ‘til three
Thus now my back is killing me
It hurts so bad, it hurts so bad
It hurts so bad you know

I worked the keys, I worked them red
I wrote down what my Muses said
They said so much, they said so much
Oh my aching head

My neck is stiff, my hands are cramped
My eyes they burn, my mind is tramped
I’ve done enough, I’ve done enough
Still you won’t relent?

My joints all creak, my throat is dry
I feel so bad that I could die
What more of me do you want?
Just go away for now

People suffer, people die
So let me ask you why, oh why?
Do you kill me oh so slow?
You know what this does to my soul…

I hate you word, I hate you phrase
I hate you eat my nights and days
That you take pleasure in my pain
You little bastards you

If up to me I’d never sit
Nor long again endure this shit
But you have purpose all your own
And make me for your sins atone

I’d rather be out in the world
Full of deeds, not serpent curled
Not creeping, crawling, filled with words
Damn you all, this is absurd!

I’m old, I know, new labors make
But this just seems to take and take
Tell me there’s a point to this
That’s all worthwhile, at least persists

Beyond the torture of today
Something I may yet display,
Something written God will say
You did that well, I’m proud

But doubt it lingers in my heart
I feel it often when I start
I feel it always when I end
Did my words rise, or just descend?

I used to think this nothing was
That writing was a sissy’s love
Now I’ve writ enough to see
This torment’s a catastrophe

One last thing I must lament
If just for once you will relent
Answer this if you will dare –
Do I write Truth, or in the air?

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