Novelist

His friends all said they loved the way he wrote,
When they read his poems and short stories.
The characters were alive, the readers felt as they’d emote.
And all said they wanted the next chapter, the next series,
Another piece of his soul.

When the muse struck he would write again,
She’d visit, but he was at work paying bills,
Coming only in fits and starts, and now and then,
They missed each other mostly, the life of no frills
Continually took its’ toll.

He knew his characters well, listened to them talking.
They told their stories so much better than he
Felt he wrote them down, poorly relaying
Details and observations, sensations, and things hoped to be,
Like they were his best friends.

It was such a release, such joy, sometimes even he
Got caught up in the wonder of describing a moment-
Their conflicts made him angry, or he fell in love with their beauty,
Then someone in his head would offer some dissent,
Another detail to amend.

Would it ever publish? Would it be a success?
He wondered while trying to duck other things, to make time
The worry wasn’t as strong as the desire to muddle through the mess,
Tell the story, write it down, another page, another line,
The word count, too slow to ascend

All the forces of hell seemed ready, arrayed,
Bent on preventing the story from being written and told,
Distractions and exhaustion frayed,
The edges of his soul as he felt himself growing old
And finally, he reached the end.

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