He takes a step back to look at his art -
miserable rants about a life he was never give the chance to start.
Beautiful words wrapped in lies and deceit,
too hurt to develop his work instead he accepts the defeat.
Writhing in pain he wears a withered smile,
Only because he can see it now, the last endurable mile.
Flicking through what's left behind,
nothing helpful nothing defined, no legacy to give his suffering wife;
she always knew that pen and paper was his life,
his mistress, his whore
but it's different now, she's never been faced with his demise before.
Now the bitterness has rose to the top, hours, days wasted,
not giving a fuck.
Taken for granted each and every breath, he's never been thankful,
not even when faced with death.
He died years ago,
each word committed to paper was a sin, draining life from him,
and everybody else.
When he failed again he'd blame the bitch who interrupted his train of thought,
with a simple knock on the door,
a broken cup, a broken heart,
he thought she'd been prepared for this from the start.
Dying slowly throughout his life, death by pen -
It was the author,
in the study,
with a knife.
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