Tired eyes closed, pen in hand,
A whole world in your head.
You sleep and dream dreams,
Full of unanswered questions.
And even if the cold night falls,
And all your fingers get stiff,
You will still sit on the roof,
Waiting for your dreams to come true.
You couldn't finish creating your world,
You didn't have time to finish your story.
It's the adrenaline in your blood,
Didn't want money or power or glory.
But in spite of that, you tried your best,
And yet you left behind you
Some kind of slack, unfinished novel.
A little strange
(oh, God),
unfinished novel.
You weren't alone in your own world,
Spending time with heroes and villains.
Even as you watched their downfalls,
As a mother, you were proud of their brilliance.
But one day they said, "You're such a fool!
And your world is just a pipe dream."
And suddenly the tired eyes closed,
And the hand dropped the notebook.
You couldn't finish creating your world,
You didn't have time to finish your story.
There's no more adrenaline in your blood,
And there's no money, no power, no glory.
But in spite of that, you tried your best,
And yet it came out of your pen:
Some kind of slack, unfinished novel.
So sweet
(hell, yes),
unfinished novel.