I’m a writer, and so I get crapped on
By editors, agents and all.
They sneer at my prose and say that it shows
I’m blessed with less talent than gall.
My friends seem to think I’m a masochist;
My wife thinks ... nothing: she’s gone.
There’s more pain than glory - the old writers’ story.
So why do I keep plodding on?
I don't think I even like writing.
I like to have written, that’s all.
I don’t make a mint when my work is in print
But I feel I’m a hundred feet tall.
I just want to make my voice heard;
To step from the crowd and then share
My laughter and tears, my hopes and my fears -
And pray I can make someone care.
Yes, that is my raison d'
