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Poem
Deep breath
          Let it out, carry the blight
                    Another ... remember the mantra

It is NOT a reflection of my worth - ever
          This imbalance, this favoritism ... yet ...
                    I work tirelessly, intensely

I scrape the walls of my spirit
          Wring the drops of creativity from my core
                    Burn the pulpy paragons of my aim and acumen

All in the efforts to weave the finest fabric from phrase
          To spin wonder from words and will
                    To affect the deepest emotion and imagination and ire

Simply by the ordering and placement of letters on a page
          It is my passion - my craft
                    And I take nothing more seriously

Or more joyously
          And no matter how magical the end game
                    No matter what the fruit born of my most astute energies

I drown in a cipher sea
          (And this is not a perspective of arrogance, but rather empirical reality)
                    Patches of rough-hewn fabric that frays at the edge

Shredded attempts at art and assignment
          That are their own worst rags and remnants
                    But are held up as the golden standard of excellence

And, (I kid you not), wonders of the writing world
          Simply because of the signature at the bottom
                    (And often, a fake one at that)

Though it fails me as to where that absurd accolade originates
          Oh, to but query straight out, without reproach -
                    Where-oh-where, is the ripe in this refuse?!?

What is the redemption you find in these careless phrases?
          Stuffy words stuffed into stuffy stanzas
                    All for the sake of feigned profundity

How can anyone possibly take such transparent text
          For anything but mediocrity and mush?!?
                    Still, the endless comments of adoration ... at a loss

It is a weekly, daily, even hourly poison to my soul
          Rending, ragged, my person and fertile prescience
                    Leaving my hands clenched and blue

My wit and whimsy tattered
          My quill filled with blood
                    And my heart ... taxed and weary.
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