The Three Torments Of A Writer

Premature Burial
Sometimes when I am writing
I pause,
I doubt,
I fear that I am
nothing more than a
premature burial
scratching his vain thoughts
on the lid of a
already buried deep down
in the deafening earth
where no one will ever
read them.

When I commit to an act
with several acts of writing,
I know not what judgments
will befall them—
if they will be taken
to the town square
and elevated on a
while all sing their praises
or if they will be dragged
in impatient contumely
and strapped to a pillory
while all ready
their fistfuls of
rotten tomatoes.

Were I able to ascend
enthroned in my triumph,
of the written word,
would I be merely the
of some career assassin
with a deft, duplicitous dagger
or would the more outlandish feat
be to turn opinion against my
temporary fame, infamy
transforming throne to
as my moment passes
and I can no longer
make headway within the
fickle domain
of public opinion?

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