The Young Poet

The young poet sits in his dim lit room
Drinking cheap wine and wondering.
He knows it could all just be bullshit
But oh how he wants to believe himself.
He takes another sip and sparks a cig
Then you start to hear the clicks.
Suddenly there’s music in the air.
He can no longer feel his room around him.
We see walls. He sees anything. He is free.
Losing track of his typing, he only has to think.
His fingers now move with his thoughts.
Clocks spin and his attention is never broken.
Then it ends and he sits depressed at the foot of his bed
With his head in his hands wondering when he will do it again.