Diet of a Piss Poor Poet

Will Write For Fucking Table Scraps!

I’ll bleed the fat for ink, grind my

bones to powder

and make peasant’s paper.

I’m nourished by the voices in

my head as they suck the morrow

of my ideas.

If I have to starve because of my

verbosity, so be it. I will feed on

literature while my body starves.

It was never about the money or

the glory anyway. The shrieking and

the screaming voices having

a home on the page is enough.

The sad hard truth when you look at what a poet can honestly expect to ever earn from their work. I love writing poetry, but even with three self-published collections and hundreds of poems published in literary journals I know I’ll never earn much from them. And it does sting a bit sometimes, hence this poem.