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Most Writers Are Beyond Reproach
I’m not most writers
Most writers are beyond reproach —
they find their Muse
of the day, write their
lines, and are grateful
for whatever reads
and claps come
their way
They pin their boosted
ditties on their wall,
make a list of their
Boosts, and try to
encourage those
more beneficent
gods
But I’m not most writers.
For starters I’m perverse,
I’ve got a bee in my ass,
and if I’ve been boosted
ten times, I’m asking
where my eleventh is
And if a poem or satire has totally
flopped, then I neither agree
with fate nor the algorithm
and will pin my failure on my
wall for all to relish
Should I chill out? Yes.
Will I chill out? God no.
Most writers are consistent
with who they read and
reciprocate with — they
may even create an
excel spread sheet,
a sort of karma chart
of who clapped when
and how many times
so they can consistently
return the favor
ad nauseum
but I am wild and moody
and leave things to chance;
I accidently get swept away
on the home feed and click
on a title that tickles my
fancy and dive in
I am Coach’s wet dream
of an organic and
spontaneous reader,
one open to
suggestion,
even if I am
allergic to
self-help
