The thing that gives me anxiety
Are people reading my stories
But even worse than that are
People not reading my stories
The thing that gives me anxiety
Are people reading my stories
But even worse than that are
People not reading my stories
The thing that gives me anxiety
For the most part is not writing
But the thing that gives me
The most anxiety of all is writing
A manuscript is always called an MS,
After the prospective
Authors submit,
By the publishing
house because that
Is the state the receiving
editor finds it
About losing your virginity
Please do one thing
for certain
And put it in the
first person
Something has happened
That I don’t think is
nice
Because my poetic
license
Has been revoked,
Twice
I sit alone in a room
Writing jokes for comics
To earn my money
But on my own I wonder
If I’m the only person on the planet
Who thinks it's funny
So, riddled with self-doubt
I’m terrified of finding out
When I was in a writing team
We was write a gag and get a laugh
Now it’s just me and a word processor
And it's hard to make the bastard laugh
He was an aspiring novelist
And an uncomplicated
fella
Who wrote in the
basement
If clergymen can be defrocked
Can a promoter be
demoted?
Should writers be described?
And musicians be denoted?
I wanted to write a book about independence
About people achieving
their destiny
A ground-breaking
piece of literature
Unfortunately, my mum
wouldn't let me
I wanted to write a book about machismo
About real men
achieving their destiny
A ground-breaking
piece of literature
Unfortunately, my wife
wouldn't let me
I wanted to write a book about feminism
About women achieving
their destiny
A ground-breaking
piece of literature
Unfortunately, my boyfriend
wouldn't let me
My Uncle has written an expose
It’s a real kiss and
tell
About being a vet,
it’s called
All creatures grunt
and smell
Where have all the readers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the readers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the readers gone?
UKAuthors have nicked them everyone.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
She read a poem
Out loud to me
On a quiet afternoon
That touched me,
Awakened me,
Stirred my soul
And my dulled senses
As she read
It flowed over me
Like scented honey
Each word a caress
Each syllable a kiss
A soothing balm
Of evocative beauty
Whose feeling,
In metrical form
Left me unshackled
Releasing me, from
My contented taupe
Free to soar
On poetic wings
I lost my thesaurus today
It was after the exam
I can’t find the words
to describe
How upset I am
Are crucial to most authors
And we all wonder if
there’s
Another word for Thesaurus
He wrote Vintage Stuff
Of Riotous Assembly
And Indecent Exposure
He liked his
Porterhouse Blue
In The Great Pursuit
And was no Blott on
the landscape
Nor was he The
Throwback
With Ancestral Vices
And in the end he
didn’t die
It was just a simple
case of Wilt
Where the white rabbit went
Then young Alice
followed
And down a rabbit hole
they went
The poet dips his quill
In the inkwell of the
muse
The resulting flowing
words
Are the fruit of
thought
Gathered on the page
In a Poetic harvest