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The Death of the Writer
Here lies the Writer,
she died alone in vain.
With stories all broken
and characters gone a stray.
Here lies the Writer,
broken pens in her wrists.
She was ignored by those she cared about.
Their uncaring actions gave the knife on final twist.
Here lies the Writer,
no poison is the blame for her great fall.
She wanted to please everyone,
but ended up disappointing them all.
Here lies to Writer,
her lover sits alone
placing a red rose on a placid stone.
Here lies the Writer,
her mother cries silently for her sunshine that went out, like a candle's glow.
Leaving broken hearts behind, and a dark and empty place once called home.
Here lies the Writer,
her son too young to know the person his mother was meant to be.
Now she is empty, broken and alone-- The woman that he will grow up the see. . . She is not the Writer.
That girl is now me.
So here lies the Writer,
as we lay her to rest.
Lover, Mother, Son know this and only this.
This late Writer,
that gave up--
that was betrayed--
that loved & lost--
that now sleeps in eternal rest, know this.
That lonely Writer, she did her best.
So blow out the candles,
and place a flower on the stone.
Because the Writer is gone
and now it is only me in here.
By myself, all alone.
The place that smelled of ink
and characters in the shadows would hide.
Now there is only darkness, fear and pain.
Left to bargain in this vicious game.
Because the Writer is dead.
There is only me left,
trapped inside of that's great Writer's head.
I am not here, or there.
I am in between.
I speak in third person,
because I am the Writer
and she is after all, me.
she died alone in vain.
With stories all broken
and characters gone a stray.
Here lies the Writer,
broken pens in her wrists.
She was ignored by those she cared about.
Their uncaring actions gave the knife on final twist.
Here lies the Writer,
no poison is the blame for her great fall.
She wanted to please everyone,
but ended up disappointing them all.
Here lies to Writer,
her lover sits alone
placing a red rose on a placid stone.
Here lies the Writer,
her mother cries silently for her sunshine that went out, like a candle's glow.
Leaving broken hearts behind, and a dark and empty place once called home.
Here lies the Writer,
her son too young to know the person his mother was meant to be.
Now she is empty, broken and alone-- The woman that he will grow up the see. . . She is not the Writer.
That girl is now me.
So here lies the Writer,
as we lay her to rest.
Lover, Mother, Son know this and only this.
This late Writer,
that gave up--
that was betrayed--
that loved & lost--
that now sleeps in eternal rest, know this.
That lonely Writer, she did her best.
So blow out the candles,
and place a flower on the stone.
Because the Writer is gone
and now it is only me in here.
By myself, all alone.
The place that smelled of ink
and characters in the shadows would hide.
Now there is only darkness, fear and pain.
Left to bargain in this vicious game.
Because the Writer is dead.
There is only me left,
trapped inside of that's great Writer's head.
I am not here, or there.
I am in between.
I speak in third person,
because I am the Writer
and she is after all, me.
Published 23rd Mar 2013
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Anonymous
- Edited 13th Dec 2020 7:45am
24th Mar 2013 10:23pm
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
11th May 2013 8:41pm
Paige, this piece is spectacular! A masterful requiem. Amen to your third stanza:
"Here lies the Writer,
no poison is the blame for her great fall.
She wanted to please everyone,
but ended up disappointing them all."
We have to write for ourselves and not give a damn about what the reader thinks...If you succumb to others opinions then what is done ceases to be art because the soul is removed.. It's a perfect catharsis.
In my opinion, you can never kill the writer it is an impulse that is as integral as is the beating heart..
"Here lies the Writer,
no poison is the blame for her great fall.
She wanted to please everyone,
but ended up disappointing them all."
We have to write for ourselves and not give a damn about what the reader thinks...If you succumb to others opinions then what is done ceases to be art because the soul is removed.. It's a perfect catharsis.
In my opinion, you can never kill the writer it is an impulse that is as integral as is the beating heart..
