If Only
If only my pen
could read my mind
and write down
what it sees there,
then I could be
an author of some reknown.
In my head there lives
a library of sorts
stacked high with pages
of unfinished works.
If only I could, somehow,
gather those pages
and put them in order,
what wonderful results
would there be?
A novel, perhaps,
or fairytales,
stories and poems and songs!
As it is, I am unable
to hold the words within
long enough to put them together.
They tumble around
filling my head
with half-written tales,
and I fear I shall
never sort them out.
could read my mind
and write down
what it sees there,
then I could be
an author of some reknown.
In my head there lives
a library of sorts
stacked high with pages
of unfinished works.
If only I could, somehow,
gather those pages
and put them in order,
what wonderful results
would there be?
A novel, perhaps,
or fairytales,
stories and poems and songs!
As it is, I am unable
to hold the words within
long enough to put them together.
They tumble around
filling my head
with half-written tales,
and I fear I shall
never sort them out.
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