There was a man that I once knew,

He wrote poems everyday.

It was fun at first to write a few,

Then life got in the way.

Being an accountant,

Didn’t use creativity.

No chance to be a pedant,

Or showcase his vocabulary.

But his day job paid the bills,

So he gave it the time it needed.

Still the pen gave him some thrills,

To ignore the call or heed it?

He tried to write things daily,

Even if it felt a drain.

But he didn’t want to fail, he

Wanted the acclaim.

Then a fateful day came,

He gave himself a break.

Gone the streak held to his name,

A day off — a mistake.

This led to a loss of fondness,

To write meter and write tone.

Where there once was softness,

Now all had turned to stone.