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I’m feeling as if I’m writing no longer for myself,
but for the absent critique of those I admire
I’m convinced I’ll never produce a work
that will gain the recognition I aspire

My passion is derived from what I don’t possess
Short tales of love and dignity
My words fall short of second-best
It seems I’ll never grasp this feat

My creative drive sputters ink,
but dies short of my expectations
That distorted voice of self-pity
reminds me of my own limitations

I fail to progress in this line of art
and doubt all of my capabilities
I fear the day when my spark dies
and writing is no longer a proclivity
 Feb 2012 maddie whitsel
Julia
hope
 Feb 2012 maddie whitsel
Julia
Hope is the lighthouse in the turbulent water,
Barely visible in the crashing waves.
Hope keeps a smile on the sailor's daughter,
Looking forward to better days.

Every time he goes out to sea,
He's comforted by his wife's smiling face,
As she focuses on hope, ignores the possiblilty,
Of forever losing his warm embrace.

Hope keeps this family strong,
Centered around gifts from above.
It keeps them pushing on,
Contemplating life and love.

— The End —