The Writer

A writer who couldn’t write

Looked up at the sky

Wondering why he tried

He took a look back at time which flies,

And remembered the passion that once filled his eyes.

From his toes to his nose, filled to the brim,

With excitement; Why now is he so dim?

He breaks, looks up at the world,

And sees the crimes that've unfurled.

Then back down at the blank lines,

The writer remembers why he writes.