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August 5, 2013



Recurring horrors

of self loathing now,

can only hinder progress



and shyness be

thy enemy within,

restraining talent,

victory ne’er to win,


and words, withheld,

ne’er seeing the light of day,

locked in some dusty drawer

to rot away.


A line, a verse, a book

or even worse;

an entire life’s work.

Oh t’is a bitter curse,


to see them on a page

without a voice,

the writer being struck dumb

without a choice.


Standing, shaking,

sweating in a coat;

in readiness to flee

and slit his throat.


 A writer, yes, until

the cows come home,

but an orator not,

of any given poem.


The spoken word

for actors on a stage,

and other great performers

who may rage,


who say their lines with

feelings left to treasure,

and hold an audience

awestruck, with  pleasure,


who raise the roof

like Hamlet in a rant;

each word spat out

so touching and tri-umph-ant.


The writer wanting only

that his lines,

send shivers down the

congregational spines.


So happy just to hear

work come of age,

as singers flick the music

page by page.


No lyricist ever sung

his moving hymn,

whilst sitting hidden,

inside some pseudonym.


A script, enough, when

written on a whim,

performed with gusto,

giving joy to him.


A writer with no tongue

inside his head,

can ever hope to earn

a crust of bread.


But no voice, however

real and out of tune,

is due to be released

to this world soon.


















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