The WriterA Poem by Lewis Davis-NormanAdolescent dreams of fame as Sparks of language fly to page The beauty of my woven text Can only strain a dull effect Because when words spill from my pen Not from my heart but from my head Middle class and private school I haven't lived enough at all The greatest success of my time Was conjuring a foolish rhyme Desperate about my life But I don't rule a world of strife So I'm not writing anymore ‘Cause Poetry is for the poor © 2012 Lewis Davis-NormanReviews
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