The Writer

The Writer


He walks alone in the city
Clean shaved and neatly dressed
Like he's going out on the town
He'll just turn and head home

At night is when he walks the streets
That is when he likes it best
Because no one can tell in the dark
If a tear should fall from his eye

He searches as he walks alone
For something to help find the words
Most times it's just a simple thing
Like a snowflake falling to the ground

The sounds of the city never stop
People are always on the move
They all have their own story to tell
None would be as strange as his

He smiles as he turns and heads home
Having found what he was looking for
Goes back to the world of his room
Back to write and think of you