Fate Of A Writer - Poem by Chelsea Crisman
His eyes burn and throb.
If only to close them,
It would all go away.
The thoughts won't allow him.
He must write them down!
All those ideas in his head!
So many words swirling around!
He has to let them out!
No sleep in three days,
But this is what makes the best work.
When he's so tired he can only dream
And he no longer has to think.
Those memories fade away.
Pure emotion pushes through.
That's when he knows he can manifest them.
If not in his life,
Then in the eyes of others.
Inspiration, heart break, and determination;
They all flow from his pen as naturally as snow falls.
Someone, somewhere, will someday read it.
That's all he asks for,
For someone to understand.
Is it so ludicrous a wish?
All these words he spills onto paper,
And not a one has ever actually listened to one.
Some call him crazy,
Others say he is outstanding.
They don't see though.
They don't see what is hidden in those words.
He writes in his insanity,
Screaming for hope
And praying for friend.
Praying for a friend that knows.
Ink stains his hands,
Sleep clouds his eyes.
Was that her voice he just heard?
Coming from the window?
Setting down his pen, he rises.
Each step takes him closer to her.
Each step separates him from his right mind.
There she is, so beautiful.
Calling his name, her arms reach out.
He's on the window sill, leaning out.
From his apartment, he thought he heard a scream.
He doesn't know.
He doesn't remember.
There she is!
Right in front of him!
Arms outstretched, he takes one last step.
One last step to be united with his fate.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about Fate Of A Writer by Chelsea Crisman
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye