The Book to Her Author


Your ideas made me, desgined me.

The paper was my womb and the ink nourished me.

When i was ready, you P U S H H H H ED me.


My spine showed my name. Given.

My cover reflected you.

And HIM, inspiration!

My text became me.

The critics did not want me. 


You erased my words. You

smu dge d my eyes




Still I am the ill formed offspring.

Denied by the world, but by your side.

Dids't I stay.

I make amends for my blemishes.

And for my mother, alas she is poor,

which caus'd her to send me out the door.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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