A poem

The day I get my first comment, I think I shall cry.

The day that I write, for some other guy,

or girl, or dog, or lassie or square,

the day my writing is something to share.

One day it will, one day it will be,

one day my writing will be for more than just me.

Why do we struggle, why do we strife,

For this damn art form with so much damn plight.

It is no easy thing, not easy at all,

It is no easy thing to pen down it all.

Writing is art, art is a vice,

A vice of the man who seeks more than plain life.

An addiction to truth, a pursuit of perfection,

A letter addressed to society’s imperfections.

But who really cares? None seem to see.

So many with dreams all just like me.

What is the point, to write to be fair,

What is the reason for this burden of care.

Why not just change, just float with the sea,

Why do I feel like it’s only me.

Does any other see? Does any other see?

For those who pursue more than unfree things.

This is the end, the struggle of dread,

The choice to be more, and to be less then the heads.

One day will come, one day they’ll see,

And then all the heads will strive to be just like me.

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