This book will endmy work of some days,meager collection of metaphor and similearks in story that rose and fellshifted setting and by degreesfaded in strength.You are derivative of other works, I say,yet you will shine for some,a fitting first for sequels spun in inkjet loins,a child that will bear my name.Silent, without voicebut full of words, the riddleI say you were formed in a thinking womb of months or yearsthen birthed to impartial scrutiny,released now, fleeing to the world an infant,fresh into the hands of strangersto cherish or abuse.Tomorrow I will place pen on paper,parent skills awanting,and create another.
27 May 2015
New tradition after writing a book
I decided I will post this poem each time I finish a book. Maybe I'll update it from time to time and tweak a word. I like to write poems. I don't think I'm great, but I'm pretty sure I'm not embarrassingly bad. Here you go:
at 7:00 AM