A Worthy Ending

Don’t fool yourself, you write to be read;
it’s nice to be liked, heaven to be admired,
but unread is implacably dead.

Some poets and wannabe’s will claim they
don’t give a damn joint whether you like their
stuff. And no, they aren’t missing the point,

if you’ve beat an aversion to tactless
promotion and scanned that far then
they’ve conned you into reading them.

And that’s vital man! Read means nothing
more than read – and they ain’t dead,
but liked or admired? Another story.

I, too, want to be read; I have a plan for glory,
how to be liked and admired – sire a coterie
of naïve wannabe’s with salacious untruths

about their writing, add to it every day. The
innocent are lead to believe they have talent,
while me, I feed off the kudos, create

an iron-clad standing as a modest
and able poet with an admirable
reputation. In time even I could believe it.

But it’s a fatal mistake. I write in a genre
which isn’t real, on subjects for their appeal,
using expressions and word progressions which

are forged signatures in lieu of original
thought, descend into trite and promiscuous
acts of Bovary sought by an ego which denies

itself decency, or any potential leniency on
a judgement day impending – or for that
matter, self-respect and a worthy ending.
© I.D. Carswell