Writer’s dream

I want to write
Breaking free from the chains
That bind me down
To me

I want to float away
Far from the reach
Of these constellations
Into a land of my mind

I want to break open,
This cage of my soul,
And explore new horizons
And let the writer be born.

Born free of me,
Free to tell the stories,
Some them my own,

Free of my existence,
And existence of its own…
An existence without a face
An existence defined by the constellations
Of the stories I wove.

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2 comments for “Writer’s dream

  1. Kevin
    April 11, 2007 at 8:47 pm

    Here’s an interesting poem that was one of my GCSE set-texts:

    The Writer

    The best story, of course,
    is the one you can’t write,
    you won’t write.
    It’s something that can only live
    in your heart,
    not on paper.

    Paper is dry, flat.
    Where is the soil
    for the roots, and how do I lift it out
    entire trees, a whole forest
    from the earth of the spirit
    and transplant it on paper
    without disturbing the birds?

    And what about the mountain
    on which this forest grows?
    The waterfalls
    making rivers,
    rivers with throngs of trees
    elbowing each other aside
    to have a look
    at the fish.

    Beneath the fish
    there are clouds.
    Here, the sky ripples,
    the river thunders.
    How would things move on paper?

    Now watch the way
    the tigers’ walking
    shreds the paper.

  2. Kevin
    April 11, 2007 at 8:56 pm

    Sonnet 17 – William Shakespeare

    this touches upon the ultimate inadequacy of the written word, it’s also a love-poem so maybe it has a place in your novel

    Who will believe my verse in time to come
    If it were filled with your most high deserts? –
    Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
    Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
    If I could write the beauty of your eyes
    And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
    The age to come would say ‘This poet lies;
    Such heavenly touches ne’er touched your earthly faces.’
    So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
    Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
    And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage
    And stretched metre of an antique song.

    But were some child of yours alive that time,
    You should live twice: in it, and in my rhyme.

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