Melancholy of the Writer

A frigid state, does he stay
locked away for the rest of days.
From the sunny morn to the starry eve
ignorant to the difference, gray is all he sees.

Looking at dead land to inspire new work
sifting through wet sand and forgetting his hurt.
Why is all but good for a loneseome creature
to roam the world free, to find the art deeper.

Caring not, whether he procedes or dies
his temptations grow cold, welcoming the flies.
The thirst for words and the hunger for life
quencnhing neither desires, he continues his strife.

Beating, bleeding, calus, cold hearts
darkness in the eyes and numbness on some parts.
The violence, the rage, the drama, the thrill
tis yet to engage a new kind of kill.

A bile of he, with his melancholy
bitting down on the sheet that he cannot repeat
seeking trueness but nothing, this man must find something
if he never writes again, then this must be the end.