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The Writers' Song

We write to breathe easier.

We write to save our souls

Not from judgement after death,

But from the daily self appraisals

Which furnish our literary orphanage.

We do not require reproach

From priest, parishioner

Or even a fellow citizen,

For our self-reproaches surpass

Any recrimination they might avail.

Our torment lies in the words unfound

Which dance deliciously in our minds

But degrade and demur when put to page.

When can we explain our visions which

We long to legitimize through universality?

Why do we care so much

To enshrine what we think we know

In a codified, inky utterance

Which likely will remain unread

As another untended, lonely epistle?

Most of us will languish

In the Middle Lands

Which lie between disdain and despair.

Mistaken by most for parvenus assuming airs,

Our intentions now the lost orphans of our striving.

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