A Writer’s Life

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A Writer’s Life

A writer’s life for me
there’s nothing I’d rather be
playing with words is fun
reading out loud when I’m done
bringing my muse out to play
and writing this poem today.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

The Poet’s Dilemma

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The Poet’s Dilemma

Days and nights spent crafting words to perfection
fueled by cheap whiskey and non-filtered cigarettes
cut off from the very world he writes about.

His prose clever and filled with profound images
the darling of society
everyone wanted his company
designers gave him the finest garments
he lived in a stone mansion with a beautiful wife;
but on the inside…

The poet’s soul is tinted with the blackest black
he has no words left
his muse left him with no note
empty with no more to give.

He sits in his library at his big ornate desk
the glow of the candles outlining his frown
considering the writer’s block that has silenced him
feeling lost.

He inhales, his cigarette glowing red in the dark
he opens his desk drawer to get more whiskey
his handgun next to the bottle.

He pours himself a drink
as he has done so many times before
it burns as it travels down his throat
the loss of words was killing him
destroying him!

He put the handgun to his head and pulled the trigger.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

Shared with Poets United.

History’s Footprints

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History’s Footprints

Footprints of new
footprints of old
history follows
stories are told.

Following clues
like fossils and bones
things people wrote
things people owned.

They’re put in museums
in library stacks
taught in our schools
some are brought back.

History’s footprints
they show us the way
the way things were done
the way people played.

Everything is copied
from something before
so follow those footsteps
you’ll want to know more.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2016

Written with Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and dVerse~Poets Pub.

Old Tomes

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Old Tomes

Putrefied remains lie on shelves
a mausoleum of words and ideas
overcome by the scent of old glue
stained pages of yellowed nostalgia
displayed like teeth in a death grin.

Dog-eared threadbare hardbacks
every one of them a tiny coffin
rotting patiently for generations
silently stalking to be discovered.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2013

Shared with dVerse~Poets Pub.