Of course he's a writer!
How could it have been any other way?
His air reeks of pomp and insecurity
With hands untouched by kindness or labour.
Blindly staring, struggling with his muse
Why doesn't he give in to the plain blue sky?
When it's blue and clear; the clouds threaten more than just rain.
We pass so much beauty, instantaneous and for us never again
But for others, yes. There must always be more.
For what is life without appreciation?
How does it count?
I don't think that they will remember
Your endless yarn, when time matters.
But my opinion is certainly as invalid
Or do I elevate myself above and beyond?
The fate of many; disillusionment and pride.
Despair, only later.
Who will be remembered?
What will come to pass?
Where is the worth in trying
If nothing will ever last?