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Literature Text
Sharpen your pencil
Dip your pen in the well
Show the world your vision
Through the story you tell
There's no right or wrong
So don't listen to critique
Your story alone is enough
So beautifully unique
And only you can tell it
Your version of events
Write it, sing it, paint it
Release, express and vent
Sharpen your pencil
Dip your pen in the well
And with your own wise words
Those ghosts you will repel
Please be true to yourself
No embellishment required
Every inferno was once
But a flicker of fire
So fan those fiery flames
And refuse to walk in line
As experience will grow
Through the passage of time
Dip your pen in the well
Show the world your vision
Through the story you tell
There's no right or wrong
So don't listen to critique
Your story alone is enough
So beautifully unique
And only you can tell it
Your version of events
Write it, sing it, paint it
Release, express and vent
Sharpen your pencil
Dip your pen in the well
And with your own wise words
Those ghosts you will repel
Please be true to yourself
No embellishment required
Every inferno was once
But a flicker of fire
So fan those fiery flames
And refuse to walk in line
As experience will grow
Through the passage of time
Literature
The Real Writers
The Real Writers:
There are those who sit with their laptops and tablets,
Clothed in a scarf and an artistic hat of some sort.
They ponder; leaving a stack of books beside them,
Sipping their decaf as though they are literature personified.
Posers...
What works do they prepare, other than blatant copies,
Perhaps a half-baked romance designed to woo a lady.
So convinced are they, of their own aptitude;
They are blinded by the beams of their burgeoning ego.
For the writer is not the man who is tapping away at keys,
He is not the man fervently reading with lensless glasses.
He is not the hipster debating ancient literature.
For he is a monst
Literature
Undeserved
I don't deserve to be an artist.
I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost.
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world.
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.
But I do think I am a writer.
I am completely, irreparably damaged.
I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
I weep over my lost innocence.
I spend nights
Literature
I Am....
I am the loud but hidden girl.
I wonder about the sheltered thoughts of others.
I hear the butterfly's wings flapping in crushes stomachs.
I see lies flicker behind smiling eyes.
I want to comfort the people in pain.
I am the loud but hidden girl.
I pretend to be the one altering lives.
I feel the pain others sense.
I touch the inner tears we hide.
I worry that individuals are in agony.
I cry for those who hide in a crowd.
I am the loud but hidden girl.
I understand not everyone can be blissful.
I say it is something the whole world should fight for.
I dream of a life full of smiles.
I admire those who strive to help these peop
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It's really motivating, really, really motivating.