Poetry
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My Beautiful Morning Betrayal

Creativity fully blooms in the morning
Birds chirp, the sun shines bright
The best time to write,
The best time for inspiration.
The problem with that,
However,
I’m not the morning type.

Instead of rising
I lay in bed and arrange words
In my head
I imagine them lined up
As if they’re ready for print.

If I feel hopeful enough
I envision a time
When someone will sit
In wonder
As
They read my words.

A time when people will urge me to write
For them.

But as I finally get up in the morning,
Searching for the light
Reaching for my pen
Wanting to put my words on paper,
My hand
Does something extraordinary.
It grows cold and shrivels up.

Useless to me.

So instead of writing
I spend my time dreaming,
Dreaming of when
I’ll be considered good.
When my writing will be read with praise,
When I’ll be invited to banquets
And dinners
To discuss those wonderful words.
When no one will look at me

As an
Unexperienced little girl.

Until then,
Until that extraordinary then
I lay and dream.

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