I could end this story with a half to whole sentence, “Sentimental people get used… (or, overlooked)!” No examples needed. But someone has to give account, that it had been that way. Theodore Franks, had a passion for poetry, while never slaked and he was grateful to his mother for supping his passion during his formative years in this art.
While for others, people thought he was not of sound mind, a bit strange to sit in his attic room and write poem after poem after poem, therefore, he never really sought advice, after knowing how they felt, and it really made no difference where he was.
Theodore Franks’ imagination was both stirring and forever going in various directions: from the common to the not so practical, sum total, never ending. A few times in those formative years, he’d read his poetry to his mother, and she was always pleased to listen, reinforcing him to continue his love and art for his passion.
Theodore’s mind imagined he’d someday be a great poet, he pictured it, strange and bizarre as it may have sounded to the neighborhood gang he hung around with, for lack of anyone else to hang around with. Nonetheless, his writings became masterful and beautiful poetry. When he got older, old enough to travel the world, and to go to college, and a time in the military, and to a war, he had more to write about, and wrote thirteen-books on poetry on all his experiences, and for the most part, in all he did, he minded his own business BRI.
Now knowing how war had been, remembering his earlier days, married to the wrong women, creating life to self-centered, children, he retired as a poet laureate, a sought after dream. And not having much to do continue to write his poetry, now at sixty-two years old. He had written poetry for some fifty-years, a half century.
In all that he had done in life, his poetry never interfered with his responsibilities, and he had written his first poem at twelve-years old, in his bedroom attic, looking out the side window, as the sun seeped into his lap, in patches. So it could be said, the undertaking that started so long ago, had been both proud and smugly pleasing to him.
But what was difficult for him was writing a poetry book on the grieving process of his mother, who had died some five-years prior.
It was good poetry, but it was like poison to him, to write it, and reedit it. Matter-of-fact, as he edited it, he now could feel all of that pain he had initially went through, when he was going through the grieving process, some years past. He felt as if he had been thrown into a tree of hard pine needles, crushed to the ground by the hoofs of wild horse, dust thrown into his face, splinters being pulled out of his forehead. He felt he was struck by lightening, that he was whipped by a javelin.
He wanted to climb a fence, jump over it and find safety, rest under the sun, understand death, and then burn down its bridge, if only he had kerosene, he might have tried something on that order.
To him, the road of death, was a road that went off somewhere along its winding path to the left side of life, leaving the living. A road with no trees, or roof top.