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The Review, by TR

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The Review

Like angels in Byzantium

Who never have been kissed;

If I simply disappear

Would I even be missed?

Like hot pants and the midi

And satin white as snow;

Would anybody notice

If I were just to go?

Like insects caught in amber

Or dinosaurs in dirt;

Were I a thing remembered,

What would my absence hurt?

Like mushroom clouds from atoms

Or locusts on the farm;

Is presence beneficial?

Have I done any harm?

Like letters in the attic

Like trash along the street;

Would I be best forgotten

When I?m beneath your feet?


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Hey! Enough already!

Don't let your opinion of yourself as a writer, or God forbid, as a person, depend on what other people say about you or your work. Because, well, that's just bullcrap, beating yourself up for no good reason.

I do not ever want someone to be "beneath my feet," certainly not permanently, and certainly not because of a review or the lack of feedback; not if they're family, friends, or complete strangers.

I have loved ones and friends who are worth more to me than any words they'll ever say. Their words are from their inner selves, processed from all the divine and profane of life, with that special spark from the Creator and that special spark of their own spirits. Their words might last for all eternity or they might never be written or spoken. I don't care. Who those people are is what makes them special to me.

Lack of feedback, bad reviews?

Forget all the critics, trust in you.

My friends and loved ones I choose.

Who are you, a not-met stranger?

Potential friend, I would hear your views.

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