First there was Homer, the Odyssey told. Then there was Dante, the Divine Comedy old. Along came Shakespeare, Defoe, and Swift. They wrote of love, of Crusoe and travel adrift. Then was Franklin, who dabbled in all. Mary Shelley and her monster, eight foot tall. There was Poe and his crow to give you the chills. Twain tells of a boy, and we can’t forget Anne Frank, questioning our Joy. J.K Rowling, we all know her work. We look up to them all, we love being hooked. We start with some paper, a pen in hand and begin to write, hoping it’s not bland. The words start flowing out, we turn to these legends, adding our twist, we write of a time, much simpler than this. The themes are so common, love, life, and death. These matters are timeless, so don’t hold your breath. We say what we want, what we need what we feel. A lifelong partner, a trip so surreal. Oh what to say next, endings are hard. We find ourselves wanting to discard. All of our work ruined in a second. Loose ends hanging, calling for our beckon. We start to wonder of these enduring classics. Could this be our waste, our feelings finally faced. Will they remember my work? All that I’ve done? Or will I just be some patchwork never actually hung?