about the art of writing II

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

---

originally published at https://medium.com

---

My first take on the topic can be found here