To write is just a joke (or so I've heard)
You scribble for nothing all day.
For whom? To this day I have learned
that readers are hard to attain.
You may have the wit, the verse
and the talent (or so you recite).
But the Muse (that f***ing curse)
refuses to lend you her might.
You keep sitting and staring
at the dounting blank sheet
For so long, that you give up
and instead turn to the mead.
The goblet fails to lend a helping hand
and that wretched paper keeps being bland.
Nothing happens to the characters there -
you have a hero but the plot is ... where?
Or else - the characters sit there in distress
and wait for you to make their life a total mess.
You think you can do it,
And you say you're Dan Brown.
But now that you're through it,
Err 404 - No talent was found.
You keep writing and scribbling
But nothing comes out of the pot.
That love story turns feeble
And your action is a joke of a plot.
Readers shun your writings,
So much that you may wonder
if this was all in vain.
And yet each evening (somehow)
You take the quill again.
This poem is sloppy
And the 'poet' is fake.
If you think it's just a copy,
browse better the net.
As this joke of a poem
is as high as I get.
That happens when no-talent
has some time to spare.
Thanks to all the readers
who got with me to there.
So, cheers to the misfits!
We're all in the same boat.
If you think that was easy,
Just have a second thought.
Бележка към всички, които ме познават - споко хора, не съм дрогирана и никой не ме е отвлякъл. А откъде се взе това, нямам идея...