Read on, brave reader, read on!
Though I should not have right to speak
And my words simply creak about the page
I fancy myself something more
Than some caustic intellectual
Whose words bring nothing
To an already crowded table
Which is filled to the cracking
With words half muttered in fallacy
And with deliberate deceit
With rambled wax spirituals
And towers of shaking confidence
I speak as if the best of them
Had given me their greatest pen
And planted the thought
That I could be a writer
Even though every shred
Points to the fact I'm not.
Read on, brave reader, read on!
(This is...strange. I'm not entirely sure how I came up with this, it just kind of sprang out. Anyway, I'd perceive it as a letter to all those out there who read my shit-tastic writing. So in that respect, you are quite brave.)
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