Your ideas made me, desgined me.
The paper was my womb and the ink nourished me.
When i was ready, you P U S H H H H ED me.
My spine showed my name. Given.
My cover reflected you.
And HIM, inspiration!
My text became me.
The critics did not want me.
You erased my words. You
smu dge d my eyes
Still I am the ill formed offspring.
Denied by the world, but by your side.
Dids't I stay.
I make amends for my blemishes.
And for my mother, alas she is poor,
which caus'd her to send me out the door.