about the art of writing II
a poem
rejected by the whole world
avoided on purpose
‘are you a writer?’
they always ask
‘yes I am’
‘I will never read you then’
they know what they want
what I can’t give them, not even an ounce
a pinch of salt in their sweet home
make them instantly vomit my words
when I burn their entrails and slaughter their pets
murder their children and leave an empty house instead
and yet we all know that there is nothing that can harm
it’s not my fault that life
dared to serve me all that
broken hearts and bones will never be lost
lack of empathy among other narcissistic traits
against
everything I have ever dreamed of and fought for
they refuse to appreciate me in parts, I’m not surprised
stories stalled are like the most mature wine
they will act as post-factum treatment
a threat to their trepidatious dendrites
never expected, but longed for
voracious readers are all there is
the head is clearing like a forest clearing
dispersed and deep, suspended and suspected
of connection with inappropriate neurotic states
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originally published at https://medium.com
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My first take on the topic can be found here
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Thank you for reading!
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About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
Find me on Medium
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