Us writers hate what we create
We stare at page after page
The words all mix together in the end
There’s thousands—no—millions of better writers
But there’s always a moment, a flicker
When the world doesn’t seem so mean
We will all write something beautiful today
Only a few people will know; it’s our little secret
One writing legend gets sick particularly when
His multimillion-dollar book hits the shelves
Some confident writers don’t seem to care at all
They laugh at the face of their own destruction
Perhaps we beat ourselves down for protection
If we pass low expectations, are we good writers?
Copyright © Robin LeeAnn
