I listened one day when the speaking wind whispered,
"The breath of the pen depends on the words of the writer,"
I heard the morning say,
"and you'll find the words you write are like life ink tattoos
that stay on the skin."
It had been a long night as I hit the space bar once
after the period of the last sentence
Entering the winds world, I was in an uncertain dawn
of acceptance or rejection
I could even feel the rising of the editor, a sun burst
for opening sun eyes, a time to fire water the wait
"The blazes of every writing dream are your friends,"
the pen wrote, "'give time your passion with every breath."
The editors reply to my writing was a negative, a no reply
meaning, "We're not interested."
I smile at the rejection and the words of my ink life tattoo
My dreams will remain to be a fire in the wind of my writing
"Like it or not, editor," I say, "I can live in my own skin."
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