He said to himself "someday I'll make it good
but years had passed yet none of his books were sold
he keep on striving for his dream, yes he's that bold
until now he keep writing still though he becomes so old.
And as he sat in his favorite chair he began reminiscing
the youthful days of his life when he began writing
and the slow, frustrating days when he started hoping
hoping that in time become nothing.
His passion for writing never got that far
his dreams were like that to a distant star
so far and out of reach, just a flicker in the dark
it would not burn, it would not blaze, it would just spark.
But though he had not reach his ambition
the writer still got old doing his passion
Writing, that's what set his life in motion
his heart and hands were not discouraged with his frustrations.