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Becca Jul 2013
I think the problem
is I try to be profound

I yearn to pour my heart out
but with added weight
at the price of honesty

I try to take the rain
beating on the window
and make it ambience
instead of nature

The cold from the wind
a tortured soul
rather than the price
payed by a fool
who wouldn't shut the window

Some are made to be our sages

Fitzgerald and his green light
Lee and her Mockingbird
Morrison and Solomon

but what of Hemingway?
What of course and real?
What of Burroughs naked at lunch?
Honesty
but also intrigue, experience.

For a girl in her bed room
trying to be incredible
there is only the shadow of a hand on paper
Becca Jul 2013
How are writers borne?
Are they picked off the shelf in a pack,
sown into dry bedrock,
watered by torrents,
of famine, illness, death.
Their genius nurtured,
by the 4 horsemen,
and their apocalypse.

Are they the fruit of wild tress?
Spread by bird wings,
and gusts of wind,
to taste the world,
as the sweet spring.
Before dropping down,
to make their own fruit,
their own tale.

Do they thrive in the city?
Like ivy creeping around a building,
clinging to the stonework,
peering in the windows,
rooted deep as subways.
As invasive,
and as honest,
as the rock doves roosting above.

Are they born of flesh and blood?
Fed on ignorance,
sprinkled with just enough insight,
that they want,
they yearn,
they learn to spit back the bitter filth,
and savour each sprig of truth,
until they sprout,
and spread their long low roots,
grasping at each pocket of air

to reach,
to grow,
to grow.

— The End —