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A Writer's Tragedy
Long gone are the days of writing
Pen and paper were lovers to the end
The vibrant sunshine on freshly crisp white paper
Back when ideas flowed as a river's course in the summertime
Oh, how I wished the days would some back
Now, ideas are just wasted
Brain cannot communicate to the nerves in my arm, down to my fingers
Frustration shows as a single tear drop runs to my cheek.
Will there be a person who would read my work again.
I feel cast out of a joy, a gift that was given to me.