The Writer #oldpoems

God this is an odd hobby. Some strange, absurd agenda I can’t sit down,
or ignore. I must lobby for it. Sold for much more than I paid.
To remain, or stay, and I lost it. So now I must profit. Big time. Big space.
No longer an option not to run a good race. Keep pace. Write every day.
Not just filled pages, but quality. Quality is where I found the kingdom. Earned it.
Drowned in the chomping waters of quantity. En masse. Quality is a carcass. Bloated.
Risen to the surface, upheld on the overlapping phallus of water. Dead, yes.
Once written it is dead. Crawling with secrets, distorted up from the bottom.
Consumed, decomposed, exposed. The morbid potential of the deep.
To those afloat bobbing, sick, clung to some boat.
God alive could not bring these words to life.
That is not why we write.
My very hobby.
Is bringing death to quality.

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