A/N: I made the first line in my head as I tried to sleep one night. I couldn't get it out the old fashioned way, so I decided to jot it down. Eventually, it grew to 15 index cards long (teeny-tiny index cards.)


In the mystic town of Bright Falls,

Deep within Cauldron Lake,

Sat silent, motionless, deep in his thoughts,

Was the writer, Alan Wake.

With weary eyes and great stupor, he gazed upon his creation.

A manuscript that changed the world,

To his whim and imagination.

For countless years, he had been trapped

By the Evil that slept at Dawn.

Unwittingly, he had been cast, as the Darkness' greatest pawn.

With every second of his enslaved life,

He thought about his beloved Muse.

He pitied her, shattered and alone,

Forever waiting for good news.

The news that he might come back someday,

Assure her all is right and well.

But alas, it may never happen as long as he's stuck in this living hell.

The chains that bind him to this realm were as tight as a Hangman's noose.

With each attempt to struggle free, the harder it was to pull loose.

And now, he weeps for Alice; dead from age and a broken heart.

For the memory of her Alan, she could never duly part.

Her funeral had been a quiet one,

Only a few appeared at the wake.

And yet a feeling of disparity,

Was the emotion they could not shake.

The coffin was lowered onto the ground;

Her body laid to rest.

For Alan Wake, the writer, it was his greatest and gravest test.

As despair began to swallow him,

He found his will was fading away.

He could not stand this place no more;

Not a year, not a month, not a day.

He screamed, he spat, he cursed, he roared;

He told his Master to end its endless lies.

Little did the writer know that it was listening to him nearby.

The will that blocked It out of him was quickly running dry.

Little by little, It tortured him;

Made him fear, made him rage, made him cry.

With sorrow in his heart, and madness in his eyes,

He met the Darkness face-to-face.

His life mattered to him no longer, and the cold Darkness he embraced.

From that moment on, nothing remained of him,

But a cold and empty shell.

He muttered things repeatedly,

Words no one could really tell.

For many times, it said before:

"It's an Ocean, not a Lake."

And thus concludes the story

Of the Writer, Alan Wake.