The Mad Poet Poem by Asad Y.R.

Sitting at his desk.
Cashing in his reality checks.
Ignoring the mess,
letting go of the stress..

Through the night, he kept trying to rhyme again.
Lots of mistakes, but he still writes in pen.
He did it before,
can he do it once more?

Passion glowed in his words.
Flowed as smoothly as the song of the birds.
Early morning at dawn,
When the sunrise looks like a fresh painting, newly drawn.

Talent cemented in him like a stone.
Always there since he was born.
His soul took form and his words were sculpted by thought forever in memoirs.
Some compared them to the scriptures sent from beyond the stars.

He had to keep doing, and pursuing his goal with desire.
Passion kept alive the fuel-deprived fire.

Now sailing in an ocean of despair, getting ready to sink.
Becoming hard to think.
And his pen running out of ink…