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Wednesday, January 21, 2015

A Writer

Of years of solitude
And a final downpour,
Of dreams broken
And all the pieces ashore,
I wondered where went that river
Of all the possibilities.
The pen was lying dead
On a blank paper;
The ink overflown
Drenched my soul;
I wondered if I could ever make right
The massacre I left behind.
I wondered if I could
Ever do what's right.
They told me I was a writer
And that made my life.