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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
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
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
It Came From The Dark
It Came From The Dark:
Amongst the ashes, swirling from the darkness of the pit,
Emerged a hand, dragging a battered body across the rocks.
Blood leaked from the wounds so callously self-inflicted,
And teeth ground with a focused determination and seething anger.
It cared not for the warm rubies - staining the jagged rocks,
It cared not for the sensation of pain...
All that it remembered was a dream, An obsession -
One that drove it ever higher; ignoring all else!
Eventually it emerged from this shadowy hole, this dreary depth,
And in that moment, it learned of the truth.
For this creature, denied sunlight and warmth -
was me...
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It's really motivating, really, really motivating.