Dear authors and poets,
With works that inspire and bring tears,
Do you intend the interpretation?
Do you mean what we think?
Or do you simply write and let us make-up what we
Want to see? What we need to hear?
We are taught be scholars the deeper meanings,
Metaphors, and life lessons.
We give you so much notoriety and acclamation.
Is it deserved?
Maybe it is maybe it's not.
We may never know.
An aspiring writer
I have always wondered. Do authors intend for their work to be as deep and meaningful as we have learned?
A soul borne of the world’s wisest philosophies
Racking his brains for mighty catastrophes
Pouring to the world it’s herbal remedies
Healing the world through words not melodies
Striving through strife these social services
They share the world its foundation in crevices
The exotic sense of understand in clipses
Comes to the mind of readers’ eclipses
Like sun and moon meets sky at tide
The lessons they teach the universe at wide
The lone wolf howls respect for these sages
They work day and night, never for wages
So take off your hats, take in what you hear
They’ll tell you of how, to overcome your fear
Don’t defy their truths, your arising is near
So all hail, and more, the words of these seers.
A million years at least would take
To read them all
Front to back and over again
If an author paid for every word
It would bankrupt them
Over and over again
Who knows how many they've uttered in darkness?
The mind and mindless penmanship
Just try and count your own thoughts sometime
It took me many years to see the light,
To realise that I was born to write.
From the first time I put pen to paper
I knew there was nothing I loved greater.
I write for myself, to fulfil a need,
Words that I know others may never read.
Though for no greater joy could I have wished
Than that which I felt when I was published.
We are forever authors till we're not.
We write every constant and every vowel, every verb and every noun, every tick and every tock.
Every moment of every day to the second.
A self published autobiographical series entitled anticipation.
Some chapters are longer than others.
Some filled with triumph and perseverance while others may be drowning in disappointment but no matter what happens we write.
Footnotes at the bottom of every page pushing into the next; formulating the action on the next page even the next chapter.
The only problem is, we don't know what we're writing. It'd be easy if our actions alone fueled every moment and decision in our lives but that's not the case. Rarely do we forge history.
For the most part, we react to it.
We can only reflect on what was written after the ink dries on the page; hoping that we live long enough to author our own endings.
Hoping that someone would read our books and see them as inspiration instead of a cautionary tale. Praying we at least get to finish.
You don't want to be the one whose....
Know that your written words echo in my soul
They touch my heart and never let go
evidence that you moved my heart and exposed my deepest emotions
Thank you for sharing your passion
Through your passion I found a voice in my silence, knowing that you have spoken
I need your words like a heartbeat
I pray to never stop breathing
as long as you keep writing
One more letter of rejection!
Disappointment and dejection!
Though many of such I receive
I still continue to believe!
I write because I feel a need,
(As vital as the need to breathe)
Words that others may never read;
Though just by writing I succeed!
When I look at all of their accomplishments
I see me
I see the potential I could be
The time inside therein intertwined
I know my motives are not pure
And so I wait
For calling to be
On a shelf because
Selfishness will not endure
But a calling will last for forever
An authors lament
So we beat on boats against the current
Borne back ceaselessly into the past
You forget what you want to remember
And remember what you want to forget
And we are quotation marks, inverted and upside down,
Clinging to one another at the end of this life sentence.
Trapped by lives we didn’t choose.
The heart dies a slow death.
Shedding each hope like leaves.
Until one day there are none.
No hopes… no nothing.
My thoughts are stars.
I cannot fathom into constellations.
Beautiful things only grow to a certain height.
And they fail and fade off.
And in that moment.
I swear we were infinite.
I hid my deepest feelings so well.
I forgot where I placed them.
We’ve all got both light and dark inside us
What matters is what part we choose to act on.
That is who we really are.
She is madness, sanity.
She is hell….and paradise.
I had something to write
But my mind couldn't let me write
It took away my right to write
It held me in prison
the guards were 26 letters I couldn’t put into words
So in silence I sat, looking at these words with no meaning
My heart dying to define them
But my mind lacking the courage to write them
This writer’s block is a cancer
To which I can’t find an answer
As it happens just before I need to write these words
Stuck in an empty mind of a dead author
Want to advance but can’t go further
I am a slave to these words and they are my master
Controlling me and forcing me to face my disaster
Until I find the words to write,
silence is what I will feed the minds of my readers