Dead Writers

You are my Shakespeare

When Poe is too melodramatic

When I’m too tired for Faulkner

When Shelley won’t give credit where credit is due

When Wordsworth is too consumed with the scenery

When I’m half sick of Tennyson

When Eliot drags on

These dead writers earned their altar

I worship them properly

But you

You’re alive and well

And so am I

So when I need that inspiration to speak

The words I want to convey

I turn to your art and let it guide me

My fingers do the rest

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