The Writer

On some calm days, when'ere there is peace,
The Writer will take out his Pen and his Paper.
Sometimes, he will write about what he has done;
He'll write about barstools, and living in Greece.

On some summer days, when the heat is quite high,
He'll sweat out a story absurd in all depths.
E'en some days, when he feels down and dreary,
He'll print up a rhetoric on why not to fly...

Somedays, he takes his Pen and his Paper,
And takes them up to the old mountaintop.
There, he'll draw up a picture so pleasant;
So pleasant and lovely, for he is its Maker.

Some days in the autumn falls he will pen,
A love story about himself and another.
He'll write about how he loves her so,
And how he hates how she sees other men.

In springtime, he signs letters to friends;
Some of whom, he'd wish more than such.
He'll make the letters flow oh, so nice and eloquent,
That once the readers see, their hearts, with his, mends.

In the winter, his heart does grow cold,
For in this season, did his love for one fold.
Here, he'll write poems about stories she'd told,
And how he wishes he'd been much more bold.

And so, does the Writer take out his young hand,
And reach down into the bag on the ground.
Out comes the Pen and the Paper he needs,
To write many things, of which all are unplanned.

These things that he pens, he pens them for good.
He pens them because his Father did so.
To follow His footsteps, he tries hard to do,
And in doing so, he is doing much good.

He writes down his laughter, his sorrow, his joy,
And every emotion he feels that he should.
All things that he writes, it counts in the Book,
And makes out a story so great to enjoy!