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Vision of the Writer The sky was borne black Recessing into smoky cloudiness Artist, belle-lettres, cheap novelist With pricking pen; all meant to give, To place upon the earth, candor. Find less remote regions for dreaming Than the unfondness of record. Giving daytime excursions away from Droning labors, bedding there. Unloved, with thoughts unpondered, lips Long unvisited by another, unyielding To hopelessness by the thread of a next page to turn. And in the moment of brilliant adventure, All but to find one's self there. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2006-04-30 18:09:53
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.75000
James,
This feels like your in a space of wondering what it's all about.
Wondering who you are and what's your mission....?
You write sharing yourself, your 'candor'.
You work hard, but at this time you don't have someone to love.
Thank God you find saving grace in a book.
The purpose I think for writing is to 'create thought'....as you do!
So success is yours..
My best to you..
Dellena