To Be a Writer

A writer’s soul …

writer Dylan_Thomas 2a

Tis a burden to be a writer,
a soul betrayer expletive,
a pen dipped in blood
a frantic heart upon a sleeve.

As the soul must fly
for the eloquence of words,
the flesh must lie
and with sin converse,
for pain and truth intravenously fed,
needs a little help
to assimilate in stead.




For all the beauty that finds a page,
there is darkness and solitude,
despair and rage,
as we in driven creative fancy,
sacrifice all for words of plenty,
and stale beer and cigarettes,
cannot consume the deep regrets
that haunt a writer’s mind.

It is we, who rise and fall, ingratiate,
all for the glory of words,
and hearts are bruised, beaten and bled,
all for what the soul has said,
and even booze won’t mend my head,
when beauty commends this husk to rest.

As words are squeezed,
pulled, dragged and cut
to fill this pristine empty cup,
with sweat and blood and long lost dreams,
damned words just deliver my everything,
and still the numb of oblivion’s comfort
cannot erase the pain,
that life in its explicable beauty
imposes on a writer’s soul,
with no-one left to blame.

Tony DeLorger
Latest posts by Tony DeLorger (see all)

Tony DeLorger

Full time author, freelance writer, poet and blogger since 1999. Twenty one published works, past winner of 'Poet of the Year' on HubPages, 'Poem of the Year' on The Creative Exiles, writer for, Google+, videos on YouTube and book sales on website, Amazon and

4 thoughts on “To Be a Writer

  • April 16, 2016 at 9:13 AM

    Wow, Tony. After reading this I don’t think I want to be a writer 🙂 No, seriously this was a wonderfully written a soul-baring expose of what it is to be a writer. Great work.

    • April 17, 2016 at 4:31 AM

      Thanks John, so glad you enjoyed it. I have Dylan Thomas in mind as I wrote, but in the end I was describing me, in less dramatic terms perhaps, but me nonetheless. I guess only writers understand. Cheers John.

  • April 16, 2016 at 11:45 AM

    You nailed it Tony, we writers/poets mince with words, we pluck them from the darkest of places at times, we linger in the valley of death, maybe a little too long. We try to find the coat of many colors, a palette of shades we cast upon a page, we never know whether they will be a confession, a story of woe, a childhood abuse, a sin let loose? I know this my poet, that my Muse finds words mostly from where I don’t know, I am simply a scribe being told, write and never give up until your drying breath. Many before us felt the pain of the pen, the wine, the drug, the fears we all still fear today. We are lonely travelers of expression. What will be our demise, or how will our journey end, nobody knows.

  • April 17, 2016 at 4:34 AM

    Thanks Vincent, yes we are of an ilk and truly only writers understand this journey of ours. I’m particularly proud of this poem, as I began it was a tribute to Dylan Thomas, but as I wrote the blood was mine alone. Interesting what comes out of us. Cheers mate!


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

By continuing to use the site, you agree to the use of cookies. more information

Our cookie settings are set to "allow cookies" to give you the best browsing experience possible. By continuing to browse this website you are accepting our cookie policy.