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Writer

Poem About Writers

You write, putting down the pretty, pretty words.

Elongating your vocabulary with a condescending tone.

You find yourself magnificent and your readers luckier than lucky to absorb them.

You spew empty letters onto your paper, computer, and that old $300 typewriter you bought to write like the masters of olden times.

Others speak to you and you ignore them, ready to battle for your imagination’s concentration.

You drink black coffee, bitter and dark like the soul you claim to have, and you switch to wine later.

It bites going down, but you’re numb enough to tackle topics which you’ve never lived.

Oh, you’ve traveled and “seen stuff” and you pretend to understand the hardships of those around you.

You’ve spoken to the homeless and downtrodden as if they were rabid animals, hiding your disgust poorly while you give loose change.

You’ve walked past the drug addicts and drunks with judgment, no prayers or second thought though you imbibe whatever you can get ahold of, ready to escape the reality of blandness.

You struggle only with demonic needles and troubling bottles, filled with the only medicine you wish would work.

Your life is only hard because you make it that way, ready to make yourself a victim, bloodying and bruising your body to drive home the point. 


You write, trying to imagine yourself anywhere but the cheaply decorated office or the crowded coffeehouse with other people lost in their own electronic world.

You try to enter the gates of your mind with broken keys, asking for assistance in a world you should occupy.

Do you enter with a passionate heart, a lust for the wild and an appreciation for the mundane, or do you enter with trepidation, ready to bring to life empty promises?

Why do you let yourself slip into letters and poetry if you feel nothing?

You can’t feel love, you can’t feel anger, only truly selfishness.

Where do you fit in a society of the creative, of the borderline insane?

Those who find themselves unable to live without displaying their feelings and needs for all to see.

You don’t see the worlds, the stars swirling into skies of red.

You don’t speak to the characters, arguing and laughing like they’re flesh and blood.

You don’t drive a car off an imaginary bridge, ready to fly high with the Lord.

You don’t experience death only to gain more insight into life.

You live without truly living.

You fall in love with yourself, but play the perfect partner.

You find yourself with wants and needs, but act like a robot when it comes to the act, only twisting and turning to claim victory without intimacy.


You walk down an aisle, adorning a lace lie, white and sparkling like the snow falling gently around you.

You speak words like you write them, full of false truths and cold impressions.

Everyone applauds, fueling your craving for attention, making you feel even more important and increasing your giant ego to unknown portions.

Your body gives way to children, aging you and highlighting imperfections you’ve never noticed.

You resent them, scream at them with profanity and spitfire spite.

You’re cold to them and everyone, but they all adore you.

They’re unable to see you for the fake God you are.

You craft and bend ideas and plots around your resentment.

You do family get togethers while calling yourself an author, self-important bull you can’t even wrap your head around.

You speak about your work with an audience and fancy yourself a writer.

You call yourself a writer without proof.

Without the connection to any dimension.

You call yourself a writer, but you can’t find your voice, only bubble pop.

You call yourself a writer when you’re only a joke.

A condescending cold joke, never funny, only displaying the decline of humanity.

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