"The Writer in the Dark"

  Such phantoms

Accompany no one else

  Such time is spent

In no other hell

    The only light is a tiny spark

    Behold; a writer in the dark

 

  Trapped and wrought

In a cave so lonely

  Dreaming of Love

Oh my darling, if only

    A tortured soul's wail, hark:

    A wretched writer in the dark

 

  Sullen self-punishment

Upon life's disparate wings

  Waiting for the day

When the pen will make us kings

    Face of the forgotten meadowlark

    We hopeless writers in the dark

 

Upon a page hear us sing 

O'er a bell that'll never ring

 

  That word pretentious

Is our only job title

  Touched and addicted

To our selfish holy bible

    All of us hoping to make our mark

    We unfortunate writers in the dark

 

  Difference drilled into the brain

Always pushed to something else

  Called coward by the world

Lying on the bottom shelf 

    Emotion in contrast bleeding stark

    A forever wounded writer in the dark

 

Shedding tears as I trade

  Shoulder boards for pen and sweater

Bracing against their disappointment 

  As I try to make my life better 

    Hatred wreathes those left off the ark

    No one laments the writer in the dark

   

Upon this page hear me sing

O'er a bell that'll never ring

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

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