I'm glad to report that even now, at this late day, a blank sheet of
Paper holds the greatest excitement there is for me ____ more promising
Than a silver cloud, prettier than a red wagon. It holds all the hope
There is, all fears. I can remember, really quite distinctly, looking a
Sheet of paper square in the eyes when I was seven or eight years old
And thinking ''This is where I belong, this is it. Having dirtied up
Probably a quarter of a million of them and sent them down drains and
Through presses, I am exhausted but not done, faithful in my fashion,
And fearful only that I will die before one comes out right ____ as though I
Had deflowered a quarter of a million virgins and was still expecting the
Perfect child. What is this terrible infatuation, anyway? Some mild
Nervous disorder, probably, that compels a man to leave fiery tail in
His wake, like a ten-cent comet, or smell up a pissing post so that the
Next dog will know who's been along. I have moments when I wish that
I could either take a sheet of paper or leave it alone, and sometimes, in
Despair and vengeance, I just fold them into airplanes and sail them out
Of high windows, hoping to get rid of them that way, only to have an
Updraft (or a change of temper) bring them back in again. As for your
Gift of so many sheets of white bond, with poetic content, I accept them in
The spirit with which they were sent and shall write you a book. It will
Be the Greatest Comment that has Ever Been Written. They all are, in the
Early wonderful stage before the first word gets slid into place.
I read a few of your poems for now, and I don't see a weak writer I see a 15 year old expressing herself and the world around her. You want to write? Then write, no one can tell you what to write, your telling the story, your telling the world. If you hadn't noticed by now your a creator, Develop your own style, If you hadn't noticed by now this your world and your voice makes whatever universe, multi-verse, or multiple dimesion you want. Keep writing...
Where is there no comment here. Could readers considered your hardworks not worth awarding.
You're my nominee for the poet of the day.
More heights please and keep the flag flying.
Why did you hurt so much? Why did you hurt so much?
How could you be so heartless? While she is always cleaning up your mess
She wasnt afraid of anything except from losing you And all the pain you had put her through