Notepad

Everything done, it feels so hollow
The lump in his throat, rid by one swallow
Wasting his life, it’s plain to see
Each word, no meaning, it’s just obscene
Every second spent writing a hole
Digging and digging, with not one end goal.

Writing and writing, his purpose is clear,
Erasing his fate, eyes filling with tears
The hole’s getting deeper,
Filling him with fear,
Fear turned to anger,
Anger to rage;
Fist in a ball; he tore out the page.

A chance he’s been given, once in a life,
Will not be wasted, by some petty strife
His eyes were opened,
A chance to start anew,
Pushing out his chair, he knew what to do.
A match in his hand, striking the box,
The page alight, hearing redemption knock.

He opened the door and who was there?
No one, just a picture of despair.
Head in his hands, strides back to his desk
Through the corner of his eye, no time to detest
Outside his window, filling him with awe
The hole he dug, has been made no more.

Author to his story,
Illustrator to his book,
But the book isn’t finished,
There’s still time to fix what you diminished.