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An old man On a boat Fishing He's caught none in his day But he is not a fisherman Bring America simplicity Strip the pomp From our prose You've done that, Hemingway
Old crusty I think you thought you were Witty Clever old man But I can see you Looking down The slow, Sassy Mississippi Remembering boyhood days And you make me
To any aspiring "authors,"   I encourage you to be more. Push for more. Claw your way, tooth and nail, for more. Each and every one of you has the potential.
We create the worlds we want to live in because Reality isn't good enough for us, but what we never realize is:
Our heads may be in the clouds and our noses may be stuck in books. But that's the way we like it. 
Our heads may be in the clouds and our noses may be stuck in books. But that's the way we like it. 
Dear Authors,   I dream of your literature which keeps me up at night as I pore over each page, deciphering and synthesizing each phrase, detail, and word.  
Ghosts linger in the crack between the door and its frame. Now, you should know that they’re hard to tame. Not every one of my demons is the same.   It is madness; It is a cigarette I call badness.  
Cherry-picked exactness and I’m trying to tell you exactly what I mean. Will you listen? Because some days I hear beautiful things that I don’t like, and wonder why they are even here. I used to read all the time.
I write to ease the pain of the day, untold with many stories to say. My pen moves swiftly along each line, while I sit here and wait for the words to align. Hours upon hours, while each word empowers.
The minute she steps foot in a libraryShe has an excited lookAnd before you can even blink your eyeShe has her nose in a book
Authors are powerful peopleThere is no limit to what they can doThey have the power to make you ecstatically happyAnd make you have a heart attack, too
Creativity on my fingertips
What really bothers me are books with silly love plots. Does his teeth really shine or is that just the light? Is her hair naturally "jet black" or is that what it said on the bottle?
Tired, to even when the pen scratches paper, an uneven blank etched scrawl, It mirrors the state of mind, a crease present now and for all the pages to come, Over lines and crossing through spaces,
I don’t want to do life today So I think I’ll just lie here I’ll be a Neo-Nietzsche Since life won’t do me either   What good is a body That only sees despair It’s not white or phallic
Literature mends the gap between those with knowledge and those without  It is a fairytale for the scholar, and a reality to ones who doubt  A people lacking the written word leave only black and white
For all the heartbroken teenage poets whose hearts are filled with unspoken rhymes, for the lovelorn adolescent authors whose beloved words are spoken out of time,
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