No Sorrow Here
A friend in an e-mail
said that I write well;
and it did me a world of good.
Until then, I alone understood.
Yes, I think so myself,
though nothing is on a shelf
with my name scribed on it.
I don’t need that particular tit.
Writing well is enough for me;
understand: it helps me to see
that I can locate words,
which shine the stars or smell the turds;
for no one’s enjoyment but my own,
because I always have felt alone.
It’s not a matter for you to worry,
but only mine, and I’m not sorry.
I chose this life from a world of strife
to keep from picking up the knife;
and long since learned to throw the blade,
yet long refrained from having slayed.