They told him he was a writer
But he didn't see himself that way
For whatever reason
It was hard for him to say.
One day he saw a puddle of water
It was muddy and mired
It reminded him of his life
Which sometimes left him far from inspirered
There were some days
When he just couldn't write
He was left feeling empty
And not feeling all to bright.
But there were other times
When the words came freely
A river of thoughts
That emptied into the sea.
He saw the darkness
Spending many a day there
Nothing seemed to matter
He just didn't care.
But he faced the battle
Fought his way back
He returned to the station
His train was back on the track.
For now he is a writer
With words to say
At least for the moment
At least for today.