The Writer

 

Please let me write

Let me make a living creating

I have failed at all my dreams

And I am hanging on to this last spark

After this, I may just give up

I may just stop dreaming

I may just be a wage slave

taking in minimum wage 

or whatever these exploiters pay 

for the minutes of my life, 

for my precious time

I mean how can you put a price on time?

I guess I will never understand this world.

A few years ago I heard a story about a man who had passed away in his apartment, 

and for days no one knew, he died, like he had no one left who cared, or maybe he was so old that everyone he knew had passed. 

Whatever the case may be, the thing is that when they found him a few days after 

and wheeled out his belongings

I saw many boxes 

and I wondered to myself. Poor old fella, that is his life right there in those boxes. What could those boxes contain? Photographs, and memories, letters that he cherished more than anything, medals, awards, who knows?  Could there possible have been writings of his. His journals, who knows?  Maybe he had his dreams inside those boxes, maybe he dreamed of being a writer and all his works were in those boxes. He planed to change the world with those writings, but now no one ever got to see them, as the men who were in charge of cleaning out his apartment only wanted to do their job, and go home. So most likely these men, just dumped his writings and everything that poor old man cherished, in the rubbish. 

These thoughts really troubled me. 

I started thinking, did the old man, live his life to the fullest. Was he happy with what he got to accomplish, 

Or did he die feeling like 

he did not accomplish enough? 

Did he take his last breaths,

and were his regrets stronger 

than his fear of death?

I truly hope I am wrong 

and that was not the case

Oh Lord, please let that not be the case.