I once bumped into an old friend
we sat there and talked about how life
drove us into madness and left us with pain
I asked him furiously, why don't we get
the joy instead of pain and the vain?
the pleasure and euphoria of *******?
the endless love of being absolutely insane?
my friend looked at me and laughed
hysterically, I recall then said to me
my dearest, we're ******* writers
we don't get the joy nor the pleasure
in our existence we get that in our
words, poems and prose but in reality
we can only dream of that never ending phase