He dreamt of becoming a great poet.
He knew he had enough talent to be one.
He lived off some savings he had in a bank
After ten years his dream not fulfilled,
Nothing published. No savings left,
He had to take temp jobs to support himself
And live in old rundown boarding houses.
He squandered what little money he made
On beer and cheap whisky to erase his sorrow
Over his failure to become a great poet.
He became an alcoholic, wrote worse poems,
His brain damaged from all the drinking.
He could no longer get any temp jobs,
Became homeless and begged for money
He spent on beer and cheap whisky.
Gave up on becoming a great poet,
Drank himself to death instead.
Bob Boyd
Author: BobBoyd
Age 80. Cancer survivor since 3 years ago. Work out 3 times a week. Ride my exercise bike 2 hours a day. Live a solo reclusive life. Retired a year ago from working with the elderly in a nonprofit. Started writing poetry a little over a year ago; most poems I write are fictional but some are not. Spiritual with a permanent spiritual experience. Write poems on many subjects. Always researching for many of my poems and because of my unquenchable thirst for knowledge. After reading and hearing about many near death experiences and death bed visions, I believe death is the ultimate awakening and the relocation of a lifetime. You may believe differently, but you have the right to be wrong -- I'm just messing with you. :-)
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