So many books and stories
The great writers keep writing
Even by hand they filled so many pages
Were they their own slave drivers?
Grand adventures written while locked in a closet
The open sea the salt air on the face
Just a table, a stack of paper, and a pen
A lamp for light as there is no window
What creates such dreams?
Can the writer write without experience?
Can he describe death without seeing it?
What drives the pen across the page?
The press continues to print
Every hand it seems has touched the book
Generations read and read again
The writer continues to write
Praying that one day sales will be enough
Hoping that there will no longer be worry
Hoping to see the sun instead of the locked closet