| A writer sits in front of his old typewriter
|
| Four corner room in solitude is where you might find him
|
| Or maybe not, in that secluded spot
|
| His hands get hot as the ink drops
|
| Staring at the page, he don’t blink a lot
|
| Taking slow sips and chugging from a gold goblet
|
| Life events made him cold-hearted, so he wrote about it
|
| Dark lines sit deep under his eyelids
|
| Depressed, plus in need of rest;
|
| That’s just to redirect his hatred
|
| So many times he ain’t say shit, seemed patient
|
| But he locked them feelings in the basement
|
| And now he writes fiction mixing moments from his past
|
| And his fans don’t understand how real they are, he had to laugh
|
| Somebody had asked him where his inspiration was from
|
| About a boy very young sodomized with a gun
|
| A tear fell from his left eye and then he tried to lie
|
| And said that in his idle time he dreamed a storyline
|
| Going on 45
|
| Fury since his shorty, «Worry» never dies
|
| It will subside; |
| reason he never kept his head up high
|
| Seldom smiled since a pedophile that pinned him down
|
| Now he sit around pondering on how he’d get 'em now
|
| When you’re down, drowning in the «why», «how», and the «when»
|
| It’s like a reenactment that’s happening over again
|
| Them dark clouds is over him while he was holding that pen
|
| A good thing he started writing rather then holding it in
|
| At this point he got 5 books published, a lot of luggage
|
| Seemingly doing well, cause that hell, he rise above it
|
| He kept the truth from the public with a default smile
|
| Camouflaging cause that’s the shit that he’s on now
|
| A better life to live: the house dog, the wife, and the kids
|
| Fooling everyone but himself, walking right off the edge
|
| Ain’t nobody knows what he went through
|
| His mate thought she could relate, he said, «not even you»
|
| With a straight face she can’t understand him, so then she exits
|
| Clears the joint account and then bounce like he expected
|
| Another one that wasn’t built to last
|
| He going mad sitting up in his pad
|
| Lit with the crooked laugh
|
| As hes typing up the next best seller
|
| 'Bout a writer end up killing himself when his ex left him
|
| His fans read about it on the following day
|
| «The Mad Writer» was the title, story on front page
|
| It said… |