I awoke to bad poetry.
Door to door salesman offering me his poems that he created and self-published. On display his self depreciating view of his world, his loves and his pain. I can see no known value in this – I have my own pain and love and so do you. He asks me for a few dollars so he can sit on my bookshelf next to Camus, Kafka, Orwell and Dan Brown. He asks me for some money to support the arts. I tell him no. By not buying your book I am actually supporting the arts. I am making sure no one will have to read volume 2 of your awful poetry. I am killing the dream before it’s too late. Before you find out the truth that your friends who have been saying you write really well, do not want to hurt your feelings. Your stuff sucks and that’s why you’re selling your own poems and no one is buying.