The Pulitzer prize is beyond him, for no one will read what he writes. Educated in labor, no degrees or fine papers, no one to care for his life. He has not a great ambition, or a vision of political gain. He seeks not religion or wealth he can win, wants not for fortune or fame. Still yet his pen consumes him, strapping his heart to each page. painting with pen a picture within, feeling the need to create. Love beyond fiction or fact, just a vision, a mission to make people feel. Intimate preludes of passions construed, someday to make them all real. His heart bleeds in black in white, in droplets he writes, fighting for love to prevail. on a sea of lined paper he's loves great creator, blowing back wind in loves sails..ha,ha tonka trip
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