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User Rating:
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10.0
/10
(1 votes)
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I move my pen across
the parchment, sometimes with
such precise strokes,
proceeding without
my guiding I wonder
if it's really me,
my conscious mind appears
blank yet the other, does
not speak until I
sleep or so I thought,
I pick up a pen I
feel someone else is
in control, I write for
my mind is empty
though my pen dances
across the page, I
write outrageous words
of imagery thoughts
of emotion symbols
of happiness hidden
bits of my sorrow,
never used by me
before, maybe My Ghost,
the Writer, he knows.
Dan Hanosh
| Submitted Date |
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Saturday, March 24, 2007 |
| Submitted Date |
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Sunday, February 06, 2011 |
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Comments about this poem (My Ghost, the Writer
by
Dan Hanosh
) |
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Marilyn Lott (5/30/2007 6:55:00 PM)
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I know what you mean, it just seems to write itself. The characters tell you what to put down and it is SO exciting. So well put.
Marilyn
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Frank James Ryan, Jr. (3/24/2007 1:25:00 PM)
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A well crafted piece, Dan....Yes, the Ghost within, is the Gift within, and this you appear to possess, Sir...Solid penning.
~ F.J.R. ~
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A fomer PH member Not part of the Clique (3/24/2007 1:00:00 PM)
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Fantastic. Loved it. The ouija board poet! ! ! No need for construction or false rhymes - just poetry as nature (or your ghost) intended.
Clair
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