Writer's Black

Day after day after day
It's a lovely little road that we walk, though unpaved
It's a little on the nose
My shitty little prose
Move and I'll work and I'll move
It's a little thing I do for myself just to prove
That I can still do the job
I ought to just walk off
There's a place I'd like to go in my hometown writing with a pad
I can't come home to that here
There's some rituals I had in my past like writing when it's black
I cannot drink to that here

You know I'm riding on the coattails of all my writing's past
You know I'm running out of ideas and running twenty back
You know I'm faded I'm an old man at only twenty four
You know I'm faded I'm an old man at only twenty four
In thirty fucking years I'll walk, I'll write
In thirty fucking years I'll walk, I'll write



Credits
Writer(s): Benjamin Bock
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