As one gets older
One often looks back
At all the things you did
In your life.
The good, the bad, and the ugly
And we all have those moments
Because we are human.
And some things you desired
But never pursued.
For me, it was a dream
Of becoming a famous writer
While I can write poems
And short stories,
My greatest desire
Was to write
The Great American Novel.
And sadly it will remain
An unfulfilled desire
As I don’t have the patience or energy .
To edit my six rough draft novels
Turning them into something publishable
And they may die when I die.
And I am in good company.
The rule of ten rule applies
Of one hundred people
Who want to write a novel
Less than ten percent finish it
Of those less than ten percent publish it
Of those less than ten percent make any money
Of those less than ten percent make a living
At writing their novels.
Her face is printable
Publishable
But manageable?
Please!
Her hair is the hair of thousands
Only interesting to a cat
Who wants to nest in it.
I see the redness on
her bottom lip and I see she is more than alive.
She is raring to dance the tango.
Do I know what to do now
or am I frozen? The fascination leads me
right up to her face.
Your face is printable and publishable I tell her.
She looks through me.
I am sad now.
I thought we might have been friends.
Suddenly her face takes on a new light.
Ugly and closed.
I walk away sadly.
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