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Post by darthonian on Jul 23, 2011 3:16:23 GMT -5
A skeleton sits at the typewriter, dried flaking flesh clinging to bone Fingers like sticks still rattling on the keys, as if trying to carry on Drained of all that was part of him, the poet reduced from a man Writing too long, trying hard to make song, he did more than any man can
Forgotten that which was told him “each letter you write from the soul takes of you” “If you write with the soul it can leave a big hole, the story I tell you is true” A jest he thought some tomfoolery, how could this craft take from his life So easy how he had forgotten, it had already taken his wife
The writer he said was a craftsman, when words flowed you dare not stop His loving wife had begged him, “is this is all I have, you write till you drop?” “We used to live our lives together but now you have found a new care” “Caressing the keys you don’t need me, next you look I won’t be here”
The effort had taken his all; his passion had drained very quickly Then went his heart and taken was his drive, leaving him feeling sick The last effort took his love and emotion, then craft leaving only an empty shell So take care those who would write, don’t write into the night lest you go as well
A tale perhaps you think jestful, something for Halloween Tell me when last you met a writer, a good one, they are seldom seen At home they sit by the typewriter, a story flows down the arms Soon when the story is told by them, then they succumb to the harm
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Post by kitty on Jul 23, 2011 4:48:12 GMT -5
That was both scary, very well-written, and sad! I liked this! Thank you Darthonian!
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