White Writer

They tell me I am


(at least I think they do)

Yet I only succeed

when masked in white sheet.

stain-removed or repurchased

I write opaque


in need of a sequel, a prequel

another review; one that’s equal

knighted, Jane Doe


my hands craft, white fabri-

cated paged

costume, a façade

whilst I watch the praise come in,

to someone they are not.

Behind curtains, I anticipate applause,

I’m nameless, anonymous, phony

Caspar the Ghost

My fingers tap the keyboard; my confidence

My lips unable to phrase;

‘yes, that was me.’

‘The novel was mine.’


Camouflage isn’t something festive,

But permanent, but profession

Mouth selo-taped; muted talent

‘No, I haven’t heard of them’

‘Isn’t that the best-seller?’

I deceive

My voice being secret

… Fame unachieved

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