It's the most delicious set of words,
primed and set in
fantastic places,
the ideas, flow, imagery.

It boggles the mind to
realize you wrote it!
Ah, wouldn't
Bukowski be proud?
It's from the heart
of course, it's all so
real and true.
If the princes of the earth
needed someone to give
their talents of silver to,
no one would be
more deserving.

File, Print...

- shocking -

It's a problematic jumbled
heap of mess,
ordinary, plain, bland,
lacking courage, spirit,
fire, imagination!

It won't do, it's no good.
How could you have been
so foolish? The audacity
to believe otherwise.

The paper collapses in your
fist giving away like
the problems your poem holds.
You are shaken with
the prospect that you
are not original, you
are not ingenious, you
are not superior.

You tap your pen,
irritation sets in like
a mother-in-law you've
never put the welcome mat
out for and the light
from your monitor becomes
to be too bright, too intense.