That is all.

He writes and writer and

writes some more

His eyes are sore

He's up all night.

He sings and hums,

He's all alone.

He checks his phone but no one's called.

He talks to pretty girls and thinks,

His being sinks into the void,

And bounces back to happy sounds.

His life's an endless sinusoid.

He sips a cup of tea and looks

at people talking, passing by,

and when he's done, he walks away.

A distant look, and empty sigh.

With gear shifts and scary sounds,

He's heading home, he's late again.

To sit and look at family,

Inquire as to where he's been.

The weekend comes and goes away,

Like doldrums in the open sea,

He sits alone with naught to do,

His thoughts his only company.

He'll live his days unlike the rest.

Wis gift to us his dirty scrawl,

The sun will rise and it will set.

And that is all. And that is all.