The writer gone and unpublished

The times are changing for the good and for the bad,

I remember typing on an Olivetti typewriter, so rad.

Whiteout was used to erase a mistake,

We all felt that our words were so great and debonair.

On sheets of paper they lay in a stack,

Now in a closet way in the back.

Words written so long ago on faded paper,

A testimony to the writer in me, a mystery caper.

But it lays in a heap not published nor ever read,

A mystery written and now lays in a box encased like the living dead.

And the mind lacks the spark that created a masterpiece now long gone,

A possible masterpiece, a shame if you think about it, a long- lost yarn.

But as the tapestry unwoven the threads are bare and so worn,

A piece of me that lays in the box, unborn.

Image result for a cartoon picture of a writer
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