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By BR Belletryst
I.
Bottle fed from Mother Goose's pinion;
I romped in Dahl's and Seuss' playground.
Frequent trips to libraries for paper
hugs from literary friends
Matilda, Stargirl,
Julie and her wolves,
I grew up with Brian Robeson,
and shrunk again with Alice's potion.
II.
Then fed with fire from Bradbury, Poe,
Dickinson, and Frost,
I broke down with Plath, cried
for Algernon, and grew jaded with Orwell.
In midst of depression with Zooey and Frannie,
Cisneros whispered to me:
"You must always keep writing,
it will keep you free."
And just like Esperanza,
I didn't understand.
III.
I fed on voices.
Shelley, Wilde, Byron, etc.
Until one day, with pen and paper,
All I could think were echoes.
IV.
Whispers once soothing seemed
claustrophobic.
I felt their inky arms in my chest,
grasping along my spine, entombing me.
My paper family, so close,
I became origami.
V.
Their dry rustlings, their musings
and fussings.
Mashing fingers on keys,
scratching pen on paper, marker on arm.
Impassioned scribbling, maddened
and unhearing, I stormed.
I wrote, and understood.
In writing, all other voices were silenced.
VI.
Their page-built arms rocketed me forward,
tossed me into the air just as
the first scream, the first echo
of a newborn in the world,
passed from my body to the page,
and melded with their clouds of breathy echoes.
Very nice trip through literature, writing, and self as writer.
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Thank you for the feedback, I tried for just that.
-hug!-
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I LOVE all of the references you have in here. Although I still don't know how I missed out on reading Stargirl
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Hehe, thanks, Jessie; I loved dredging up old literary selves and explorations for this. Stargirl and the sequel, Love, Stargirl, are two of my absolute favorite books. The second probably just a little higher on the list.
-hugs!-
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