My last post reminded me of a poem I had written back on September 13, 2024. Here it is.
Foolish and delusional is he,
Who thinks all his writing is exceptional.
For the reality is bitter,
And has been since the dawn of time.
Much of what we write is trash.
Some of what we write is bearable.
Little of what we write is exceptional.
And yet, to find the coveted little,
Much must be written.