When sorrow profound strikes an author's heart And joy eludes his life throughout for long; No more roads are left for his crippled art, Leaving him poor, diseased, in utter debt!
Though history's full of real examples, Of authors talented, yet struggling hard; Unable to make both ends meet, Quaffing cheap spirits with anguished minds; Reaching ledges for a final fall!
"Oh, cruel Nature! Oh, deaf /mute God! Why hast Thou forsaken me? Could not my cup of woes, less bitter be? "
Crestfallen, frustrated, in despair 'yond compare, The author raises a glass of hemlock to his lips, To drain the poison down his throat, To breathe his last, yet wears a smile so brave!
"I've wrung my heart off all its blood so dry; I've sweated blood when others slept in sex; What could I do if luck didn't smile my way?
Let people say whatever they must say! I did great things that people rarely do " With mind filled with such thoughts, The dejected soul commits Suicide.
