Should I Write A Novel?
by Barbara Lynn Terry

Should I write a novel,
Or just sit here and grovel,
At the beckoning finger of my fans?
Do I want to write of my life,
To draw it out and cause much strife?
Or do I just want to play with literary license,
Jump around and scream in a dance?

How does a person write an autobiography,
When she has no real memory,
Save for those few fleeting years
of her pre-teens when she was
so happy, innocent and carefree,
Accepted as the girl she so needs to be?
How can a person write thirty thousand words plus,
just to make the reader in his literary lust,
Want more, more, more, when there is no more to give?
Why can't we just write how we live,
In this dusky old world,
That cannot allow this soul to be the girl,
She was actually born to be,
But has not yet found a way to be free?

I am my mother's daughter,
And I will take the public to slaughter,
As they read about innocence lost,
A pure soul tossed,
Into a pitch black hole,
From which they tried to
deny this girl to be whole.

I will take the reader on a journey,
Hoping it will not be on a gurney,
As the reader reads in shock,
The watching of the aging clock,
Slapping a child in the face,
Who is now in so much shock,
From being abandoned,
And thrown away like a rock,
Making her cry ever more,
Cause she is forbidden her dresses,
Her hair in curly tresses,
And her smile turns to sadness.

I will take the reader far from the madding crowd,
And I will speak in a voice so loud,
It will be heard around the world,
Because I just have to be this girl.