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Rated: E · Poetry · Satire · #1004055
Sometimes an author's work demands alot of themselves...
Plaguing me for endless years,
meriting my sweat and tears.
Softly from my lips they fell,
these words to you, I long to tell.
Sleepless nights and all morning hours,
the words you refused--stacked high as towers!

I begged and I pleaded for you to accept
all my hard work and time unslept,
but you would have none of it, you scoffed at my plea,
"You must give every moment to me!"
Your cold blank stare, so unforgiving, I swear,
I will sit here until the page is no longer bare.

So, here I toil, no, not by special request,
I feel I am chained to my chair as if under duress!
My eyes grow more weary, barely open a bit,
I promised not to give in, I promised not to quit.
But silently I wonder...how can this be?
Has this journey I set on finally defeated me?

Alas, with a sigh, I set down my pen,
I glance at the clock, it's half past ten.
I push back my chair, I sit up straight,
I stare at the pages, stunned, with this breath I bate.
My eyes, wide with awe, hearing the words you would not lend.
I realize, no longer distraught, I have finally reached The End.
© Copyright 2005 LaMourDuCiel (lamourduciel at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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