Not autobiographical

The absolute last recourse of a writer without ideas is to write about writing.

And I'd also just like to say that this poem is NOT IN ANY WAY AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL.

No, siree. Not autobiographical at all.

There’s really something that’s a little sad
About the man in the pub with a pen and pad.
Is he writing a poem? Is he writing a song?
Perhaps a manifesto that's for righting a wrong.
Forty minutes later he is writing there still
Is he writing a story? Is he writing a will?
You glance surreptitiously while walking by
But you can’t read the words, no matter how you try.
And it wouldn't make a difference if you could,
As if you’d read them you’d have understood
That he isn’t writing anything he just pretends
While he drinks alone because he has no friends.
And the book that he’s holding is just his disguise
So that he doesn’t have to meet your eyes,
Now look, he’s finished – put away his pen,
But tomorrow, for certain, he’ll be there again.