A Writer’s Lot. A poem.

And at that certain time
Heads emerge from shells
Where they were buried
Dreaming tales to tell
And cloistered in my womb
Loneliness and black dog thoughts
Of doom and gloom
I send my words to you
Sometimes liked
Sometimes not at all
Left wondering what the magic recipe must be
But liked or not
Potter on through storm and swell
Becalmed haze, unfazed
A writer’s lot is thankless
Take what you can, that way
You go on and on
And on
Tomorrow’s yet another day

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