The Written.
Standing on the ceiling,
Looking down on everyone.
Claim’s he’s going to make it out the desert.
Handing out his flyer’s to a gig of only one.
Hoping he will be someone they don’t forget.
Wished upon a star.
Somehow wrote himself a song.
Puts his ambition in the bin.
Claim’s it’s the cause of all his neglect.
Book’s are in the cupboard,
Where nobody can read them.
The words now only exist in fleeting memories inside his head.
Then one day he opens the curtain to reveal,
A little light.
Finds the paper he scribbled on.
Decides maybe its been long enough to give it another try.
It will just take a little dedication.
Girlfriend tells him maybe his best is in the past.
Maybe it’s time for him to move on...
...But the words are in his head.
All he needs is his favourite pen,
And his books speak to him like an old song.
Now he’s sitting in his chair,
And losing all his hair.
His stomach isn’t as flat as it once was.
His lungs have given up.
His girlfriend has left him to his dreadlocks.
As he speaks his final words,
He says I just have one more line.
And he has them write it down in his journal.
He wrote so many books never heard.
He gave no answer to their reply.
He said take what you can from me...
Nothing is ever final.
(C)2026 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.