I need an inspiration,
something sure and free.
It's as though the mist today
has cast its gloom o'er me,
and the rain has washed away
all the words I wish to say.
The too loud music
fills my mind, blocks out sound.
If it blocks out thought as well,
I find that I don't care.
I'll have to fetch ideas from elsewhere.
You call yourself a writer, pet,
and define this as one who
tells the truth.
But you are a writer of fictions.
You fear the truth, love, that you claim to
find security in.
While readers of your writings of fiction
acknowledge that they seek escape,—
escape from their real world, my sweet—
writers claim to hide a deeper meaning
in the words they so aptly use.
At least the first are honest, dear.
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140,610 Literary Works • 673,552 Reviews
Overall, I thought the piece was great, but the last stanza confused things. I wasn't sure whether or not the writer was internally arguing with herself or thinking about someone else...it's not much of a problem, but I would check that to make sure that it doesn't accidentally lead other readers astray...