He was never far away;
And the last to ever say he was gone
Was the same who could stutter brains and brawn away in the skylight.

The city is bigger and pretty,
Prettier aesthetically in his brain,
Where the pretty place he remains is driving him insane,
Can you blame him?

He called it, in the end,
He even said it was around the bend,
Yet as a friend to himself he threw out a hand to lend
In verbal assistance.

He feels the grease caress his fingers,
As the smell of sadness lingers,
In his mind from a past mistake he did partake upon himself to rightfully correct.

He is hauling himself from Hell,
Smacked straight in the face by the sale of his emotions to sadness,
He is buying back his shares,
Because he cares.

He was never one to trust complete optimism;
In fact he felt like optimism was simply one side of a schism,
That would take 1 step forward,
Only to end-up 2 steps back, and off-track.

Maybe it's his misuse of the art;
But logic and realism are a part of his mind he can't silence.

He believes himself to be,
Optimistically realistic;
One who will not deny life's hardships a good cry,
But will strive to try in making things better using the side that's much brighter,
And lighter.

He is a fighter who looks not to fight,
But to do right, and live life,
Beyond his work as a writer.