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Of Writing

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Hard it is to write down words,
Already engraved
In the blank books of my mind,
Stored away and saved.

Written for myself you see,
Not for your critique
Now and then I pick them up
And once more take a peak.

At the worlds that thrilled me then
Worlds that still amaze.
And sometimes I think it wrong;
My own tales to praise.

Still I foster fantasy
And dwell within my tale
Oft I like it better than
The life in which I flail.

But I know there comes a time
When I must let them go
Readers hold them dear to you
Them to you I bestow.

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Copyright © Copyright © 2020 Philippa Pinnington

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