A novel first brought to life by
A troubled soul of genius, embraced
By beatniks to the rythym of horrid
Out of time bongos that sounded
Of a primordial time before the wheel.
Clearly an unintentional lie by troubled souls
Themselves unable or unwilling to face
An unsure future compared with livid
Thoughts and dreams of Utopia unended.
Short lived, reefer addicts with a lack of feel.
Those who were Steppenwolfs, unaware,
Could never understand until later, with fear,
This disease that afllicted poor and rich
And men of greatness. Anxiety and the depressed
Common in all, as it is inherent for men to share.
Suffering is life. If a man can find to quell the fear
Of finding a brief moment of happiness, he is rich
And blessed in life, for those, those wolves of the Steppes
Are freaks of nature combating in a perpetual
Decision to live, or die by their hand, realizing
That it is easier to die, than to live.
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