There was a man not so very long ago, working as a mail man,
he hated his job,
hated his life,
barely able to survive.

He went home every night,
not a child or wife in sight,
spent his money on cable ****,
nothing in the cabinets but kernels of popcorn.

The end of his day was his pride and joy,
he had loved writing since he was a boy,
wrote books no one wanted to read,
publishers looking only for money and greed.

No one took chances, so he continued in his strife,
one day committing to taking his life.

An inbox message pings red,
he was surprised he wasn't dead,
a publisher willing,
to take a chance,
a simple offer,
a forever dance.

He said “I have one of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy…or stay out here and play writer and starve. I have decided to starve.”

He wrote and wrote and worked to finish life as somebody,
finishing out his life on a high,

Yet the note on his gravestone reads

"Don't Try."
Why?