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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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