Death of the Writer
His life was a long one
Full of pain,
The way he dealt with it all,
Was to write.
As a young lad writing comforted him;
When he felt lonely or sad,
Stories of great adventures or lost treasures,
would flow from his pen.
From a lad to a man,
The writer had become a prodigy
Highly regarded by his university,
He began to write deeper, with more feelings from within,
Stories of love or the meaning of life,
Now came shooting from his pen.
The years went by, the man continued to write
His writings were now garnered with great fame and through his age he gained experience,
Learning now the reason he wrote was because of the sorrow and loneliness of which consumed his past.
Not until he lie on his death bed did he realize the life of a writer is one stricken with such great sadness,
Next to him his notebook lies hiding the hidden meanings behind the words, the secrets of his lonesome past.
The rest of the pages left to be unfilled
For the time of the the writer has come to an end,
He lies in bed
Happy at least his words left his pen,
For the world to cherish.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
