The old writer heads to his type writer,
He's in the middle of writing his memoirs,
Life and old age have made his features harsh,
Success has brought him no happiness,
Just resentment and bitterness,
His stories always had gruesome endings,
He hated the typical fairytale ending...
He saw no point in lying to everyone,
In giving people false hope,
He always wrote about the real world,
The harsh world,
The one he had lived in for nearly 80 years...
His memoirs could've been passed off as one of his books,
Such was the hate and bitterness that filled it,
His life had been tough,
He fought addictions and life threatening diseases,
Yet he had come through all that,
But those experiences had made him a shadow of a person...
But just as he approached the end of his memoirs,
Something odd happened to the old writer,
He was hit by a sudden epiphany,
One that told him his life had given him much more,
Than he or anyone else could've asked for,
His life had given him love and loss,
Aswell as a constant battle,
And, as bitter as he was towards everything in his life,
The old writer realised for the first time ever,
That he was happy with how everything had turned out...
So when the police found his body the next day,
Slumped over his type writer,
The words they found typed there were the last of his memoirs,
And they read...
"I have died a happy man...goodbye to a wonderful life."
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