The Curse of They

Fickle dreams and wishful things
Will get you nowhere wise.
The industry of artistry's
set up for your demise.
For all your days, you'll tread a maze
Alone until you croak
Each dream you draw, life will erase,
And all poems you spoke.
Your life will leave no evidence
That you were ever here.
You pray and plead to Providence
In vain hopes that He'll hear.
But in the end, you've always known
You'd live, write, cry and die alone.