Ghost writer

Heavy smoke fills the brisk Autumn air

and he sits in his somehow dark room

at 3 O'clock in the afternoon and broods over

the fact that not a singular inspired thought can come to mind.

Romance? No the very thought of forcing himself

into another relationship just to write a book made him nauseous.

Thriller? Ugh if he had to chase another family around their house

in the dead of night and get his clothes bloody again he'd rather die himself.

Fantasy? He was never very good at writing about

experiences he himself had not lived.

Horror? Like what? Locking another person up in his basement

while physically and psychologically torturing them? Been there, wrote that.

With nothing to write about, his will as a writer was was coming to an end

That was until on that same fine Autumn evening the ghost of books past visited him.

And one by one they took turn whispering in his ear about the greatest story's

the world had ever feasted their ears upon.

It was finally time, he thought to himself excitedly

So he walked over to his bookshelf grabbed his diary

which detailed every gruesome thing he'd ever done, placed it on his desk,

and grabbed the key he kept taped to the last page.

With his key and the Autumn wind whispering sweet nothings to him

through the cracked window, he opened the secret compartment in his desk

and swallowed that pretty little pill that would allow him

to write the best story, the world will never see on this fine Autumn evening.