Watcher

He sits alone in bars,

Searching for inspiration from drunks afar

Women come up and offer him a drink

But he’s not here to respond to their winks.

His eyes are fixated on the man who staggers when he walks

And he listens to the young woman who cries as she talks

People might think it’s absurd

That the ink from his pen to the page is overheard

But he’s not fond of the stories that he’s been in,

So telling about others is where his gift truly begins

His words flow into melodies of memories of the lost,

He tells stories of lives that have been glossed.

He has a dark side that is largely unknown

And if it was his choice, he’d prefer to be alone.  

He's a artist of a different kind,

His music lays bare the human mind.

He'll deny it, but his story deserves to be proclaimed,

Some day, his songs will have a name.

But tonight he'll leave the bar behind,

with more stories to entertwine.

The words will stream so easily from his pen,

as he continues writing about strangers once again.