Ghost

It has always been my dream to become a writer, a journalist might be the proper term. To see my name in the prestigious by-line of the story that I wrote, would feel like I won a much-coveted Olympic gold.

I never knew until college, that Nanay (mother) shares the same dream. I should’ve figured through the old baby photos inked with her scribbled narratives of my tiniest beams or angriest screams.

And so I tried my luck, with my degree as my backpack, I tiptoed towards an unknown track. Then I found a good samaritan who lead me, guide me through the mountain. Together we climb journalism’s terrain. I can already see the peak, I can almost touch it. That’s when the corporate monster appeared to suck all my wit.

I fall briskly, painfully. But my dream’s too stubborn to abandon me entirely. So now I am working behind. Cloaked and hidden somewhere no one can find.

My mind thinks.
My fingers type.
My eyes read.
My mind edits.

The article’s done, but I don’t recognize the name on the by-line.

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©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Unsplash

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In response to dVerse‘s Let’s Kick it Up A Notch by Victoria C. Slotto.

Search your archives and choose a poem, even if it’s one you thought was already done, and see if you can add a little spice to it through the use of sensory description, replacing metaphor, or tightening up your word count. (If you write prose, maybe you could choose a paragraph and make it into a poem, still applying the prompt.)

Read Victoria’s own poem titled Death Imagined.

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NOTE: Here is the original poem where this prose came from. 

Ghost 
(October 21, 2014)

It has always been a dream to be a writer.

A writer who can be able to see her name in the prestigious ‘by-line’.

But now, I have settled to write ‘behind’.

My mind works.

My mind thinks.

My fingers type.

I finish the article.

But the By Line’ isn’t mine.

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