A poem about wanting to be a writer
I want to be a writer - and like a new poker player - I'm starting to evaluate my cards. I post on several poetry sites I find syncing them kinda hard. 'Cause I'm the model of imperfection heck, I'm the Edison of mistakes - a teenager half-heartedly committed to doing whatever it takes. Does it help that I'm never happy? That I constantly make updates? At times I feel the proverbial cat chasing its own tail - but I think I'm making progress - like a literary snail.
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