THE SONGWRITER

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PAUL LONG

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He puts his pencil down on the table
And lights another cigarette
He's been working through the night
But it hasn't come together yet
He makes his way to the kitchen
Throws cold water on his face
He thinks the melody is weak
And the lyrics written down in haste

His hands are cramped from writing
And playing chords on his guitar
He walks over to the window
And looks out at the stars
He stares into the darkness
As a smoke ring hits the glass
Most of the time it comes easy
But tonight it's a pain in the ass

He thinks about his inspirations
Like Haggard, Clark and Prine
Kris and Willie and the man in black
Who told us why he walked the line

He remembers that he wrote his first song
When he was only twelve
Now several hundred later
He finds himself old as hell
The face he sees in the window
Shows the wisdom of a man who's aged
His body may be slowing down
But his mind is still engaged

He takes a bottle from a shadow on a shelf
Where he's  hidden it for himself
And times like these when words are hard tofind
He pulls the cork and pours a shot
Picks up his old dreadnought
Begins searching the dark recesses of his mind

He picks his pencil up from the table
Just like he always does
He can tend to hard on himself
But he's as good as he ever was
Using words that spark a mem'ry
Or tug at the strings of a heart
He weaves them into a melody
That can never be torn apart

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