Last week, I put up a poem for Mother's Day. Next week, I'll post a poem that I wrote in collaboration with several other poets, under the guidance of Linda Wastila.
But today, I post nothing, because I am drowning in work.
There once was a writer named Tony
Who thought of himself as a phony.
"Pass for a poet?
As though they won't know it
is naught but a pile of baloney!"
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Are you allowed to be a writer of any kind *without* this kind of doubt? Well, nevermind. You're in a good company!
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