A Writer's Life

So I thought you would be impressed.
There should be admiration.
This gift of mine is more than just
a form of recreation.

No, no, it is much more than that;
it’s my emancipation.
I put my heart and soul in this,
all of my dedication.

My poems contain my sweat and blood
and my exasperation.
How can you just throw that aside?
Is that your inclination?

If you look close upon this page
you’ll see my perspiration.
(Unless of course it’s gone by now
due to evaporation.)

But never mind, that’s not the point.
I’m filled with desperation.
If you don’t praise me for my work
you’ll ruin my reputation.

And now you say there is no way
to ruin my reputation
‘cause no one wants to read my stuff.
That’s my imagination.

Well, now the cat’s out of the bag.
There is no consolation.
So I’ll just slink off by myself
and sulk in isolation.

A writer’s life is full of woe
and scorn and consternation.
Perhaps it’s time for me to choose
another occupation.