The Writer

He's convinced himself it's all part of the creative process
a life of excess
So They tell him,
"You know, you're gonna kill yourself."

Woman, drugs, meaningless names, faces, sex and sensations
a part of his plan
and they tell him, again
"You're murdering your talent."

It's the experience, he swears by it, swears he has to live
to savor it all
yet they tell him, one more time
"You're gonna lose what little you have left."

He tells them, in no uncertain terms
the opiates
the barbiturates
the benzos
the alcohol
the women
the sensual
the taste of nicotine and powders
coating his throat
the feeling of numbness
penetrating his nerves
the feeling of floating
taking over his limbs
and now he tells them
in no uncertain terms
"I have to feed the monster screaming in the back of my head,
to fuel the words. I have to translate the cosmic noise."

It's death by vice he's submitted himself too
every excess a coffin nail
Every time his body starts to wither
it's the hand of the writer he was born to be
hovering over an empty cage
that he cant find the words to fill.