A little old man of 105 died a little over a week ago. He died while sleeping, in his bed, in the house where he had resided for over 65 years. His wife died 12 years ago…left him alone with a lot of memories. You see...one usually shivers at the thought of going senile in their elder years. He didn’t, he wanted it, he felt cheated by his clear mind. He had to live with all the memories of the people who had come and gone…he remembered all of it, the good and the bad. You see, that’s a very long time to live with all the knowing and to be alone in it. Oh, don’t get me wrong he also felt very fortunate…sometimes it was just hard. I saw him a few days before he died. His gray eyes, once a crystal blue…filled with so much wisdom. They had seen so much, I could only imagine all that they had seen. He was my Grandfathers best friend when they were children…he’s the reason I started writing. He started writing when he was 14 years old. He wasn’t a very good writer, I mean his command of the English language was…well let’s just say less than perfectly bad. His handwriting was barely legible, and when he wrote poetry…it was either pathetic in his attempt at rhyming or it just didn’t rhyme at all…but…you see, that doesn’t matter. Before I left his house that day, he handed me a key. Looking at me he told me it was to his storage shed behind the house, he wanted me to have everything in that storage shed…because what was in there he knew I would appreciate and I would understand. I went and opened that shed and to my amazement found boxes upon boxes…literally over one hundred of them. I started looking in them and as I did I began to realize that they were all filled with…his journals…his writings. I finally got all of them back to my house and after two days have them in chronilogical order. They start when when he was just a teenager in 1910 and the last writing he did was on May 30th, 2001. 91 years of writing…every single day. You see…he didn’t care what he was writing, he didn’t care how it sounded or if it made sense to anyone else…he just wrote. Because he did that…because he wasn’t afraid to do that…I have 91 years of history at my fingertips…and let me tell you…what I have read so far…well…it’s amazing. It’s the stuff film makers would love to get their hands on. The problem with that is…they would change it, script it to make it more appealing to the audience…because of that they will never see it. I am writing this and posting it on this site because I see so many attacks on what people write and post on here. Those people…the ones attacked…you are the people I am writing to. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, it doesn’t matter if they like it or not. I mean, sure if you are aspiring to become one of the greats and want to adhere to the standards…well then it does matter…but otherwise it just doesn’t matter. Just remember, no matter what you write, the reason you write…do it for yourself and know that there is always someone, somewhere who will appreciate it. It might not be immediate and might not ever be acknowledged…but it will happen…it does happen. So...with that said, let those who want to comment on the poems on this site, criticize, ridicule, belittle, nitpick...go ahead if that's what you need to do...but understand in the grand scheme of things, you...your opinion...it doesn't matter. It's your time wasted. It's over exertion of your miniscule mind because you don't have the knowledge, the understanding of how important those written words might be when all is said and done...bad or good...you never know whose hands it might end up in and what it might become...after all it's what history is made of.
Reason for writing:
all those who aren't afraid to write what they feel.
you're beautiful, unique and the reason for so much.
Birth sign: Virgo
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