The writer bled
Where he learned to bleed
With the poems who knew they would always be alone
On the bard tree
He knew he had to write anyway.
Tortured by the elite
Crawling at their collective feet
He nurtured the wound
Performing the proper cuts
His verbs so neat…nouns so complete
Now the charity of those who know
Sift him regularly
Mostly tossing him as the dregs of mankind
And other’s… verses win serendipity
Who could question their fame?
When your words are lying in shame
Never fear…for in the future
The next train of thought
Will let you ride
In the boxcar of the ones left behind.