BROKEN CHILD
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?
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