Pity the Writer

Pity the writer, who in the thrall of gloom,
Writes of people in despair and of doom,
Pity the writer, who through experience,
Writes of heartbreaks and old brooms.

Pity the writer, who cannot see the beauty,
Who looks at a house and sees only the windows sooty,
Pity the writer who cannot choose but listen to,
The strains of love and only hear the weight of duty.




But pity not the writer who though not,
Very eloquent with his words and what not,
Still beholds with awe and wonder and hope,
And thus cherishes every little happines he's got.




Pity the writer who in times of testing,
Cannot create a work of literature jesting,
Pity the writer who must use his rhymes,
To overcome despondency and be sadness besting,

Pity the writer who even when in love,
Cannot see the bestowment of miracles from above,
Pity the writer who writes of eagles and ducks,
When all he needs to see is the flying dove.



Pity not the writer but, my friend,
Who can be so, and then turn and make amends,
Who can even having been through so much,
Still see that even the darkest of clouds must bend.



Pity the writer who complains of writer's block,
Who can while the hours away looking at a clock,
Pity the writer who listens to all around him,
And hears only the agony of tick-tock, tick-tock.

Pity the writer who can sit out in a garden,
And describe how they seem, when hearts harden,
Pity the writer who is blind to how the colors run riot,
Such a writer, I implore, please pardon.

But he needs no pity or sympathy,
He who languishes in the throes of empathy,
Who can find the bonds of love and kindness,
Even when surrounded by dry apathy.