He never made it

                                                     

He sat alone,
scratching on the back of his head,
line after line,
recording the stillness
with the quivering quill that was his mind
drilling holes into his soul.

Verse after verse,
curse after curse.

The little bars upon him
looked on with contempt-
'Now to keep you in,
I give up my dream'
Smiling he turns his page,
his heart, rent with ink that is blood.

Verse after verse,
curse after curse.

Sun rises,
falls
then the stars,
the moon,
they fall too.
He looks up, down
left, right.
Clenching his hair,
punches the wall -
Ah! beautiful poetry.

Liars ! hypocrites !

Asleep, he mumbles
magical incantations,
tragic symphonies,
the notes transcend,
tearing at his skin to escape-
alarmed, he rises.
The end is nearing.

Like a soul, restless
to run and hide,
the pages of his book
stumble on rapidly,
blood filling his mind.,
Oh! Genius, he marvels
his mind, his book,
almost over.
Overjoyed.

Next morn,
they find a body.
No one will mourn.
From nothingness to nothing
he has now gone.
Yet, his mind relentless-
keeps locked his words, his thoughts -

Verse after verse,
Curse after curse !