I begin with a promise
To myself,
And to you in turn.
I will not pace myself
With fiction.
I would not lie to you,
And would not distance
Myself from your
Disdain and
Distrust.
My pen flows freely,
Without spurts and
Without breaking
My prose’s stride.
It’s easy, for my prose
Lacks character.
It breaks down at the
First sign
Of interrogation.
It refuses tests based
On truth or lies,
Tangential or
Otherwise.
It regards literary
Devices as usurpers
Of the art of
Storytelling;
Of the magic of
Inducing tempo by
Mere vocal exercise.
There’s nothing
I can lose.
My prose falls
Short of the
Bars raised high
By those who
Have withered
And flown away
To the bowels
Of correct
Grammar and
Accepted enunciation.
But I believe in the
Smooth curves
Of my penmanship;
In the swirl of my
Nib when it crawls
Across the paper.
The mere scratches,
No matter how few
And far
Between, is a source
Of pleasure.
I might write trashy
And inferior prose,
With a tacky byline
And formulaic
Characters.
I might produce
Insipid plots,
With bland dialogues
And trite endings.
But those words
Make love with
My soul and
The music they make
Together,
Is worth the disdain
In your tone.
And the contempt
Of your tongue.
Ho-Hum 
Made me smile 😊