He had one final look at his work. The ending was perfect. The beginning was perfect. Yes. The pace slackened a bit in middle, but it was acceptable. A handful of people may not like it. He couldn't please all. But he was sure that he would please most of the people, the ones who mattered. Above all, the work would impress him. He had surpassed his own expectations. He had read the final draft for the 27th time by now. It was perfect. Next day he would contact the publishers. He was sure that nobody would refuse. They would lap up his work and offer him some handsome sum of money. Probably much more than any of the first time writers could ever dream of, at an age of 29. That would bring it all - name, fame, recognition, money ... everything! He was destined for greatness, as a part of the title suggested. Maybe in a year ... or two years at max, the world will recognize his greatness. Maybe, that would be fitting reply to the world which had branded him as a insecure, reclusive, w...
I really like this poem. It conveys the feeling so well...of having so much to say, but just no words. :(
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