“When most people call themselves writers/poets, I ignore them because frankly, they suck.
But you’ve really got something.
If I could publish you myself, I’d have already done it…”
The kind of thing you really want to here
When your sitting it out on your laptop
All too aware when it comes to the OCD that you need to steer clear
My lot right now
That’s me
Compliments like this don’t make the slog any easier
Well maybe
A little
Don’t get me wrong
An awfully nice thing to hear, from a girl living stateside too
Come to think of it
In the past few weeks there have been quite a few who’ve shown something of an interest
They say they’re impressed
I don’t know
Maybe it’s the American imagination working overtime
Maybe they see a leprauchan on a clapped out typewriter
Potatoes grow every which way he looks
It’ll be the only thing he’ll ever cook
And that’s fine by me
Picture it however you want
Because I continue to write
Consider the next line, my next choice of font
Back to the compliment
Of course it’d be nice if she was a publisher
But she’s not
And that’ll just have to do
I’m sure there’ll be a few more like her
Knocking on my door minus that book deal
What the hell is it about this book deal that floats my boat so
God damn serenely
I mean
It’s hardly everyone’s dream
Do I need to start taking it one step at a time
Publish my own book
Keep an eye out ’til that elusive publisher I do manage to hook
Maybe
Or maybe it’s time I let my rhyme do the talking
They do say that I’m good
Be they in Ireland
Or some far off destination
Down some backstreet
In some hood
I spoke about it before
The taste inside of me
It keeps me fighting
More often than not goes about filling me with a certain degree of glee
Never enough and that sure can be tough
Thinking about it some more I do find myself wondering if my standard of poetry
Will in the end prove conclusive
I might just need to start being more seductive

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