The old writer knew his time was short, every day he was surprised when his eyes opened and yet another day stood before him.
He wasn’t unknown but even the best poet in this modern era is still a poet.
He had his works splattered like roadkill all over the board.
From Texas to England.
He was everywhere, his words knew the world and his body knew the long-term effects of an eternal good time.
His chest hurt where once a hopeful heart of a misspent youth did exist.
But that was many a moon and one-night stand ago.
He couldn’t recognize the fool who once said to a woman he almost called his wife.
I’m going to be a published writer one day.
That poor fool died long ago with dreams that were soft and sunsets that even now he avoided staring at for too long.
His road was forged alone with rejection slips and pain.
The old writer wasn’t as near as old as he felt.
—–
John Patrick Robbins is a barroom poet who’s work can also be found in In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, and The Outlaw Poetry Network. His work is unfiltered like his thoughts.
