Dedicated to the Writers

A writer lives a hard life. He lives in his own world of fantasies, creating dreams from paper and ink. Sharing his wildest passions and ideas with the readers. A writer has the power to make another cry and perhaps others laugh. It all depends on the words which he writes. His job brings joy no matter. Seeing the look of captivation on a readers face, watching a child laugh with joy that his work brings or even having someone tell him that his writing is far beyond comprehension. The writer has many joys, but then again, the writer has a hard life. He lives behind his books and poems. The people do not love the writer, they love the books. If a writer was a mere peasant who hoed gardens for a living, no one would care. No one cares anyway. The writer is just a name embossed in golden ink onto the side of a book. Other than that he is insignificant. He is the last to know about anything and is the first for anything bad to happen to. The very things that brought him into his job can turn against him, his emotions. His sadness is read and not felt. His happiness is read and not felt. His anger is read and not felt. His entire life is read, but never understood by anyone apart for himself. Perhaps that is why the writer confides in his own world of fantasy where his dreams can actually come true. Because the chances of that happening in the real world are as good as Haley's comet colliding with the earth and causing less than a tremble through the earth's core. If anyone was offered a knife in their moment of depression, the writer would be the first to take it and end it right there and then.
Why was I blessed with this curse. Sometimes, the only time i feel appreciated, respected and loved is in the pages of my own text? Will I forever be force to live behind my wall of books and papers? My answer to myself, is yes. From where I stand, there is no possible way that anyone will ever be able to help. The writer's life is a hard one. And if it wasn't for it's subtle rewards here and there, I'd soon be dead.

The world was never meant for one as beautiful as a writer.


-Kyle