A creator's death, tried and true,
Writer's soul all black and blue,
With tears on the pages, staining all to black,
Every word a reminder that they are a talentless hack.

Struggling to find the words to say,
A voice, a choice afforded today,
Where they once floated, frozen in place,
Lay nothing at all, the writer's disgrace.

Without words, he has no soul, no passion, no vigor,
No catalyst to spark the fire, he's missing his trigger,
And without a soul, and his reason for living,
He confides only in self, ever unforgiving.

"I'm ruined, I'm shot, I'm no good at all!"
He screams and he hollers at his bathroom wall.
Pounding his fists until they bleed the brightest red,
He's lost all his purpose, he's left the words unsaid.

That is until he met language true,
His purpose refound, and his quest renewed.
To learn and to observe, to watch and to see,
Of what a writer is, was, and should be.

"Thank you dear spirit, please meet me again!"
He said to the spirit, whom he now called friend.
The spirit didn't speak, didn't nod, didn't know,
But just as soon as they arrived, the sooner they'd go.

And then they just vanished as if they were never there,
But truth be told there was never a more dangerous pair,
A man and his spirit, both tried and true,
The words were all back, and his writing was too.

This is a neat poem! My favorite kind of writing is writing that goes very deep.