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The hardest thing about writing
Used to be rejection but now
It is the crazy aftermath
Of question marks that appear
After I’ve left all my
Answers on the page
It becomes not a matter of quality
Or quantity but a matter of why;
Why does outside acceptance matter?
Part of me sees the old metaphysical ploy
I’ll get it once I don’t want it.
Can I walk into that room and
Switch off the light of desire?
Is writing simply a vehicle
In which to drive my persona
Stopping occasionally to mop
My sweat-filled brow and rest
My silly soul dedicated to
The business of ego?
Is that it?