Passion Over Prosperity: A Pauper's Pursuit of Literary Greatness

I am a pauper, with naught but air in my wallet,
And no desire to labor, converse, or trade.
For my obsession is to refine and redo,
My book, and publish it, a goal to evade.

Seventy rupees, my only treasure, I hoard,
To buy seven packs of Wai Wai, for seven days.
I fast and drink only water, like sages of yore,
Ignoring all other woes, in this enlightened craze.

Dreaming of wealth, to treat my mother dear,
With Shillong pork and bamboo shoots, her delight.
And Nan Polok's Muri, the fish she holds dear,
A feast to honor her, with all my might.

But I remain steadfast, in this pauper's plight,
For my passion for literature, shall always be right.

So I toil on, with pen and paper, my wealth,
Though naught but noodles and water, be my health.
For I know, success is nigh, just round the bend,
And financial freedom, I shall soon befriend.

So let me be, in my seclusion, to write,
For greatness, waits, just beyond sight.
With every word, I delve deeper into my soul,
And strive, to make my book, a story untold.

For what is wealth, but fleeting, and quickly lost,
While art, remains, and lives on, at any cost.
So I shall persevere, in this madness, and strive,
For literary success, as long as I'm alive.

And if my efforts, bring me fame and gold,
I'll buy my mother, the finest pork and hold,
A feast, to celebrate, my passion's reward,
And bask, in the knowledge, that I have succeeded, with word.

And if my words, do not bring me fame and riches,
I'll not despair, nor shall I be a fool.
For my love of literature, shall ever flourish,
And I shall keep writing, with a heart that's cool.

For writing is my solace, my joy, my life,
A path that I have chosen, with all my might.
And I shall follow it, to the end of the line,
With passion and perseverance, in the darkest night.

And though I may live, in poverty and pain,
I'll never give up, for I am driven by my brain.
For writing is my destiny, my purpose, my call,
And I shall do it, till my last breath, I shall.

So let me be, a broke and lonely writer,
For my pen, is mightier, than any glitter.
And though I may have naught, but Wai Wai noodles to eat,
I'll keep writing, with a heart that can't be beat.

For I am a writer, with a soul of gold,
A storyteller, with tales, yet to be told.
And I shall keep writing, till my last breath,
For my passion, shall always, surpass wealth.

And even when my book is published, at last,
And I have earned my due, for my hard work's cast,
I'll never lose sight, of what's truly important,
For writing, is my passion, my soul's resort.

For words, are my canvas, my story to tell,
And I'll keep weaving tales, that others can dwell.
For in my writing, I find solace and peace,
A place where I can be, entirely at ease.

So let me write, and dream, and toil, with might










This poem is a part of the published book "Homo Sapiens Part XII" in the Homo Sapiens book series by Mawphniang Napoleon. If you enjoy reading poems by this author, you can purchase all of their books in the series from a common online store available in your country.