On Writing

By Feeré Goroné

An inky blotch defiles my filled, once white sheet,

Covered in words that tell a story, a tale.

I see the places pen and paper did meet,

And imagine my ship of words, my sail.

It is the truth that the greatest pleasures,

Lie not in reading the works of writers passed,

But lies in creating your own worlds, treasures,

Of great hearts, brave and true, of hours steadfast.

Or in immersing your talented self,

Into fantasies of your own deft hand,

Rather than taking up a tome from your shelf,

You are already acquainted with your land.

The path of an author is paved with sharp rocks,

But I can tell you, with hard work, it pays off.

Well, I hope you .iked that, though personally, I didn't really. Anyway, as for the other poems I said I'd post, well, Two Hearts, One Soul is up now, and "Memory" and "The Timelessness of War" will be posted shortly, possibly today. As for chapter thirteen of VICE, that may take a little longer as I've only just started it.