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He was writing his thoughts, set to see,
With intentions for others to read and review.
What quickly happened, he couldn’t believe.
Things happened, he was quickly to rue.

Others had read and enjoyed what he said.
He, too, enjoyed the time then at play.
Life was changing, he was thinking in bed
Of the words he would write the next day.

Little did he know, the effects of his pen,
A true novice compared to others that write.
His words invited and soon he made friends
With others who shared on that website.

It was so overwhelming, the pride he had.
The compliments just started to pour in.
He thought it was great. It couldn’t be bad.
What he was doing was really a sin.

He was living vicariously through his verse.
He was happy, honored, he was proud.
He pushed on for more, that of his thirst,
Until he soon saw an oncoming cloud.

He had to stop. He could not go on.
All the effects, he was soon to realize.
Oh, he was sorry for all he had done.
This I saw in Ken Fanta’s eyes.

His silence was hurting. His pain on his sleeve
Was apparent by his outward cries.
That often happens, you better believe,
When one sits only to fantasize.

He has resumed writing, again he feels whole.
This time though, he will do it right.
Maintaining his friendships, through self control.
No longer to write there at night.

He now writes his thoughts, purely on whim,
Then publishes there for all to read.
He hopes his old friends will soon forgive him
And that new formed friendships succeed.

This day that I talked to Fanta I knew
That he is now happy and wishes that for all.
He still writes with his heart, yes, so true.
He seems now to have answered his call.

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