Why do I bother to get it all written down?
Do they look on me as a boring old clown?
When my very best "write" is hardly ever read,
Maybe it's my style; it just goes over their head?
With a few exceptional exceptions but only the few,
No comment or good reception so tell me what's new?
My reads on the best day may struggle to ten,
With forty or fifty for a comparable pen.
Does one join the selected and fawn with critique?
Would I lose my identity and become then a geek?
A certainty is I shall continue to write for myself,
Though my poems may get dusty left unread on a shelf.
Criticise my works; I will die for a day or two,
Leave my works on a shelf unread; I am among the eternally damned and tormented.
