Are all writers broken children?
What drove us to speak, to talk, to shout and scream
With our mouths closed and lips unmoved;
Ventriloquist to our characters?
We face a blank page as if it a mirror darkly
Might reflect unseeable images of our inner self
Or is it someone else?
Or the souls of persons nonexistent?
Do we tell of the life we lead or the life we wished?
We pour out some hidden world, secrets of our psyche.
Is it mere imagination or the deeper truths of human nature.
Are we imbued with insight and perceptitive minds
Or because we are but broken children
Is it just retaliation?