American Writer

There's an American writer in the house on the hill
Wonder what its like to try and figure out what's real
Between loving someone else and going through hell
With lovers like dust jackets for books on a shelf
The story going around the neighborhood last year
Was how no one slept because all they could hear
At night was his typewriter hammering on the page
Between murmurs and cursings of her name

Now, those of his ilk they come from fire, but bleed, bleed the same
And each one of them has something of their own to tame, oh to tame

We read his name once in a magazine
The story was about how he made what is now the scene
Inspiring others by the words, the words that he wrote
The article wasn't much besides the young kids quotes
But there are pictures of him as a younger man
Leaning next to mailboxes, shuffling cards in his hand
With eyes looking forward past the lens
As if looking for someone or a friend

Now, those of his ilk they come from fire, but bleed, bleed the same
And each one of them has something of their own to tame, oh to tame

The more we hear of him the more we want
I'm kept up most nights wondering if he'd want to talk
About who she was and if he misses her so
But I can't help but think that'd be a way to let her go
Cause the American writer doesn't throw the pen away
He knows the craft of a heart is what will become one day
Under the guise of healing and a lover for the night
Like the way clouds and light can't untangle from your sight