Writing process

In a sense of victory
I hold up what is mine
All these years I worked on
My own life and times

Putting ink to paper
In a leather cover fine
Hoping that someone would read
My life, love, and rhymes

The days in sun
And when snow whined
In the time where love won
And souls were kind

I converted this life
To a physical type
And amidst loss, love, and strife
I have tears to wipe

What of this book
That no one will read
It was a tree cut, and shook
It had memories

A young woman
Once sat at its base
Peeled and ate apples
With memorable grace

A young man
Brought by a date
Joined the young woman's hand
Under a tree of fate

An age later
Men have came
And these traitors
Gave this ancient, pain

In a sense of sadness
I take down what is mine
This item is madness
Murder redefined

I recycle my work
And tell of the tree
And all it was worth
Came with words from me

Reviews

[Dakota]

We all tend to fear that all our blood, sweat and pain that comes with writing will all be for naught. That our masterpieces will sit in a forgotten corner gathering dust. You had good flow here and you wrote down something many of us don't like to acknowledge to ourselves, much less out loud. Kudos for that! Great piece!

[MusicMartyrs]

I don't think you'll ever have the problem of no one reading your books :)