No! Don’t ever write! No one reads poetry,
especially when it’s available for
free. Meanwhile there you’ll be, wasting away
with a broken-down body and a collar
stained blue with the dirt John Henry toiled in.
Successful people, satisfied with their lives,
love mocking yours. I think Johnny Cash said that.
Truth be told, I strongly dislike waking up
in the mornings. No amount of coffee can
assuage the fact that another day stands in
the way of that final ride in the carriage
Dickinson wrote about. How many poems did
that depressed woman’s corpse compose? Two thousand?
Something like that. How many did she sell? Two?