the light burns bright holes into my eyes
reflecting off a blank white page
the Arizona sun isn’t forgiving
to the helpless writer
but after minutes of scribbling
my latest prose
black ink covers the page
and my eyes are saved
from scrutiny
who’s criticism and skepticism
can bury a writer in an early grave
or convince him that he’s not good enough
that he doesn’t have what it takes
the consequences of which are grave
so to the writer: keep writing
save yourself from failures
cruel scrutiny
and take up your pen in defense of your talents
in offense of the non-believers
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