The Loathing
A Poem
What a thing, to make a living as a writer.
To write, and write, and write some more.
To sit in a chair, tapping the smooth letters
of the keyboard one by one.
Each strike of the keys a silent salute
to vain voices wailing in the dark.
What a thing, to see our thoughts in print.
To read, and read, and read again.
To rest on a throne, grasping the sharp laurels
of fame without good fortune.
Each typed word a tribute to the loathing
of specious scribes weeping in the dawn.
To write, and write, and write some more.
To sit in a chair, tapping the smooth letters
of the keyboard one by one.
Each strike of the keys a silent salute
to vain voices wailing in the dark.
What a thing, to see our thoughts in print.
To read, and read, and read again.
To rest on a throne, grasping the sharp laurels
of fame without good fortune.
Each typed word a tribute to the loathing
of specious scribes weeping in the dawn.
Published by M.E. Lilly
I'm an American expatiate living, teaching, and writing in China. View profile
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