Qualms of A Writer

Who would hear my beliefs?

If I wrote them in a book,

Long and wordy, not brief, with

characters keeping you hooked.

 

Would my work ever be great?

My metaphors dissected,

Future essays lined with hate,

After my thoughts had been collected.

 

Could I be the new Dickens?

With a reader’s head in the binding,

As the plot thickens,

Their eyes searching, finding.

 

My book could be the story,

Read at night to children,

Filled with my memento mori,

I could sell a million.

 

Or I could stare at the page,

Empty and waiting for me,

Until I’m old with age,

And the arthritis seeps in gently.

 

I could miss my opportunity,

Out of fear of success,

The apprehension of a celebrity,

Always trying to impress.

But I want to be remembered,

I want that immortality,

So while I still have that ember,

I’ll write with all my individuality.

 

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