Like the main the author must die
their lives written out, bound by a books spine
Their eyes are yours, you have what's left of their mind.
How tragic the story line was?
Well that was their lives.
They give you who they are, so you can read to
throw away some time.
Months to years of their lives soaked up in a weeks time.
But yes like the main, their creator must die.
But they are immortal in another way.
Their mind might die but their world will stay.
With hands now plagued with arthritis, and blind milky filmed eyes
They cannot tell you about their mains lives.
Aged is their mind, taken by time,
But immortal is the world they created....
A whole world...in a few hundred pages...lives carried out
and then shut down....
Yes like their main an author must die.

I'd give anything to read how an author describes me.
An author writes his characters as a wonder, a shining beacon of light, almost inhuman.
Really these characters - brave, smart, kind - are just like us.
Just like me.
So I want to know:
Am I brave?
Am I kind?
Am I smart?
Am I passive or active?
Am I intriguing or impressive?
Inspiring or insightful?
Amazing or attractive?
Strong or beautiful?
You know all these words.
You read all these words.
How an author writes his characters
With adjectives that seem inhumanly possible to describe anyone on this earth
Especially yourself.
But they could be used to describe you
And you just don't know it
That's why I'd give anything to read an author's description of me.
I need to know.
What adjectives paint the picture of me?

My words peep through
The veil of literature,
Like a cautious creature
With wary eyes.

My words, they swim,
Through these oceans of thought,
Darting swiftly with fear
That they might be preyed upon.

My words often fly through the sky,
Where creative feelings linger high,
But they hide among the clouds
So that they will not be grounded.

My words, I try to use them masterfully
So that I will not be quieted but rather heard.
Still, I must make sure I contribute my message,
No matter how I deliver it.

Voices in my head
Gain life on the page
Showing their all
Upon a new stage

Bits of me are in there
Some in more than most
You just have to find them
the paper is the host

I may be the blues man
I may be the painter too
But, just what parts are me
Well, that is up to you

Each character, each story
Is a part of me
But each part is well hidden
You have to dig to see

I'm in every story
Somewhere in the words
I may be just a shadow
I may be singing birds

Look and you will find me
And learn just who I am
In the river of the story
Or hiding near the dam

Each page contains a segment
Of me there in the rhyme
Look hard, I'm really hidden
Don't worry, it takes time

I'm in every story
Every character is me
Just know that I am with you
Look hard, I'm tough to see

I'm begging to find a purpose
in this god-forsaken world.
I feel smaller than a particle of dust.
how could I possibly make a difference?
do I have the right to earn such a gift?
I do not believe I am worthy of so,
or worthy to walk where my feet have imprinted themselves onto the surface of earth.
could I be blind to my own awards?
is life a reward in itself?
weren't you and I each chosen to form in our mothers' womb?
this was clearly not ours to make,
so shouldn't we take the time day by day
to figure out why we
were made?

Pen in hand waiting to glide across the lined sheet
and yet no blood is spilling upon the page so I admit defeat.
I am void of prodigious literary expression;
my spark has gone and now I must face temporary repression.

All they see
Is,
The me who knows biology
And science stuff.

All they see
Is,
The me who knows nothing about art
Or humanity.

..the me who's in her teenage years.

I wish they want to see me as more than that, really.

The laughed at me when I told them my ambition,
My dream job:
"I want to be an author."

My dreams and hopes. . .

I just want to see a better world,
Where
Young boys and girls have their chances to speak their minds;
Where their opinions are being considered;
Or at least,
Respected.