Slowly, the pages are filling up
Another Chapter is nearing completion
That Hand that writes, writes on
On and on and not a word erase
But my Book is full of pain
Of misery, heartaches and rotting dreams
Yet the Hand writes on
On, on and ever on
Nonchalant to my thousand cusses
Unperturbed by my impotent rage
Pity though the Book I cannot close
Pity more, the Hand I cannot force
It bides its time
And O how slow it is!
But why can't I just own my Life?
After all isn't it but a mere crumb of eternity?
A flimsy moment in the Sea of Time?
Surely my absence would not be felt
Surely the Giver should not mind
So why can't I own my Life?
After all, isn't every Man a dead Man?
Then why can't I die when I want to?
Why does Death ignore my call?
I would die later anyhow
Why tarry now?
Why not take me now?
Why not now?
I search the portal
That leads out of here
And I would give my all
To the one to take me there
But till my search prove any less futile
And I begin to walk that mile,
Only one question will linger in me
If every Man is a dead Man
Why can't I leave when I desire
Why can't I leave now?
I am so relieved it is not autobiographical! ! A plea from the heart of a lost soul - a good write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The poem is interesting, the questions and fight with own fate I find true, to many of its words I can relate.. If this is total fiction than you're more than good...Thank you for share.