Perhaps not in itself, but shall I write what I wish
Full knowing that others' words like arrows might be
Thrown at me, or shall I bend to write the normal and
Accepted, thus shutting away my own ideas and
Visions, only to be tolerated by literary critics while
Gathering heart-ache in my own soul, as it grows weary
Holding back its secrets; if only I could be content
With the simply average. To live with lions and tigers and bears
While I see dragons and werewolves and faes, ah! never,
For although lions and tigers and bears are real to them,
My creatures of magic are ever so much more mine.
But to carry on this way, to write of the mystical while
They see not past the word "witchcraft," -- there's
the
Problem which forces those with vision to hold back:
For if no one will buy the vision, how can the author get
Through to those who see only the child demanding attention
And not the child who has lost his parents, the boy with the
Rugged hand-me-down clothes which are too small for him
Yet not the boy living with two parents and six siblings in a
Small home in Ireland, the girl who studies and academically succeeds
But not the lonely girl who cries inside for a friendly face?
It is an author's duty to teach her audience something,
Even if that audience refuses to accept it or
Is too stubborn to see past only the words on the page,
Too blind to see the reality in the fantasy, while the author
has worked
To make it as obvious as possible through her own imaginings.
Perhaps this author is too afraid to proceed on her own,
For writing can be quite frightening with its unknown outcomes
And neverending questions. Perhaps this is why it is best not
to
Look that far ahead, and if you are still afraid, hand if off
To someone else, someone who is unafraid to catch something
In mid-air and fly with it. Yes, now JK Rowling's hands are off
of this mess,
It's to you now, Harry Potter -- boy wizard, embodiment of many
a child's
Dreams and fantasies, take good care of them, and take good care
of me.
