Between The Lines
Don’t read my work
and claim to see
something that there may not be.
Don’t shred my words
and break my prose,
and pick through for
what you think you know.
A writer doesn’t write for you.
A writer writes like flowers dew;
Overnight, or through the day,
we perspire what we need to say.
It trickles out, we collect those drops,
arranging them neatly
in an intangible box.
And when we find
we’ve found enough,
we take that box
and empty this stuff.
We carve into paper,
the mind's imagery,
We speak in a voice
our own soul will know
and you mispaint us with ignorance
as philosophical pros.
We are not
A writer’s pen is like her heart.
Her scrawling script
is not just art.
If eyes can be windows
and hearts can be doors,
a writer’s utensils
are what brings her forth.
Between the lines
there's nothing to read;
those are only the spaces
where we stop to breathe.
Go ahead now;
Violet Winters's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Between The Lines by Violet Winters )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
(7 October 1948 -)
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