The provocation of anticipation
caused by the desperation
for insperation has left
all relaxation
less,
and a tired old man sits
shaking, quaking in fits
while a pile of unwritten
manuscrips sit on his floor.
His door speaks while
his mind squeaks and he
leaves life with a ludicrous
longing for a legacy.
In a million years what
will they know of the tears
of crazy pain that left
old man fame an unwritten
author? and in a million
years what will they know
of written fame and what
hearts proclaim of love,
and lust, spite, and hate?
What will they know of fate?
M. R. Atwood
Reason for writing:
I wrote this pome because of the many true poets who,
try as they may, will never become fameous. When you die,
maybe then people might see you as a great author.
Birth sign: Not entered
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