Charles Bukowski's last written words before he died. He was a better writer on his death bed than 99% of other writers in their prime.

The words have come and gone,
I sit ill.
the phone rings, the cats sleep.
Linda vacuums.
I am waiting to live,
waiting to die.
I wish I could ring in some bravery.
it's a lousy fix
but the tree outside doesn't know:
I watch it moving with the wind
in the late afternoon sun.
there's nothing to declare here,
just a waiting.
each faces it alone.
Oh, I was once young,
Oh, I was once unbelievably
young!

What I love about Bukowski is the economy of his language. Each word has such weight. So many writers use 20 words when one well chosen and simple word will do. All killer, no filler, a well needed anecdote to our present culture of meaningless excess 24/7.....