Armed with effete exordium, the writer began her written composition with outright ignorance.

Her thoughts were archaic and dull and her heart was a cocktail of puerile sentiments and jejune convictions.

Her words were prosaic.

Her letters were wistful.

Her imperfection sipped out with every single pour.


She is a writer. A writer with no name.


    1. Wow. That’s so nice of you. I hope I don’t disappoint. Thank you so much for interacting with me. I’ll be reading your posts, so bear with me if I flood your notifications with my uncalled-for comments. Haha


      1. I love comments! Hehe. Also, I know how hard it is to get noticed online. I’ve been writing for quite a while, but I’ve been really spotty with writing and posting stuff online consistently, so I was happy to get any notice.


  1. I like this poem. I understand what it is to be a writer. To search for meanubg behind your wirds and hope that someone understands. It is good to be a writer without a name.


    1. Yes. Thank you. That’s actually the meaning of this poem for me. Aww. Thank you for reading. Do you have a Twitter account? He he. I would also like to follow you on Twitter.


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