I don't like to play the moody artist, but there are times I cannot deny my own bitter feelings. While I can't say I am terribly unhappy, or that my life as it stands is awful, there are many times when I feel unfulfilled. I don't know if I'll ever be satisfied with myself, short of becoming a millionaire writer, and that isn't because I have a huge lust for money. It's because I feel that my purpose in life is to weave the stories that I do, and the point is lost if people aren't reading them.
Some may think that's romantic and others will consider it pathetic, but to be sure it is the way all great thinkers feel. Those of us born with creative ambition have a need to excel, and influence the world with what we do. If things had been a little different, and I'd chosen a different path, it might not be such a hard road to fulfillment, but this writer's life is all I've got.
The noose slips tightly
Around my waiting hand
Dangled in the sky from
A stray cirrus cloud
The release will kill me
If I ever seek to be free
Yet to remain in flight
The life slowly drains from
My body, as rope burns
Form around my wrist
As the blood flow weakens
The throbbing pain of ages
Reminds me I'm alive
But no satisfaction can be found
The strain of the line
Pulled taut by my aging bones
I know not what it means
To be light on my feet
They dangle down beneath
Where I'm afraid to tread
This world below, I see it all
Yet none of it sees me
And I know that forgotten dreams
Will never be out of reach
Even as the wrist noose
Keeps me from striving for the mark
Holds me in place to watch
The future drifting by
Leaving me to ponder when
The rope will break
And death awaits
When it comes to an end
Can we ever let go
Of our mortal shakes?
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