The average writer envisions his life,
By now, would simply be,
Some sort of sweet, honey- like paradise,
Dripping of nothing but the very-sticky-best.
The average writer lies flat-chested
Atop a frozen, silver pond,
Encapsulated by snowcapped, skyscraping evergreen,
Waiting to be embraced in the woolen hands
From someone who understands.
A year’s grace of life,
Perhaps, reveals a shortcut to a dream
That most live out their time,
And never achieve.
At a coffee shop, traditionally
Drinking another cup o’ joe
With under the couch change,
The average writer thinks his writing
Would have, should have-
By now unfolded itself unto the public,
Like the newspapers that stained readers’ fingertips.
The average writer’s needs,
Word Trains from formed ideas,
Enough inky coal to leap off
Tracks of pages,
To chug up curious sleeves,
Of the average writer
Into their tunneling eyes,
To drop off a bomb of completion.
Oxen-like vigor and pristine diplomacy
Wilted as a dying orchid.
And all of this happens
When you get what you paid for;
Only, the average writer, like most of poor potential,
Could not afford any better than a cup o’ joe.