You have no future as a writer

You have no future as a writer
because you wallow in self-pity
because you don’t love yourself
because you don’t believe in your work
You have no future as a writer
because you’d take the easy cash grab
and work on your undemanding way out
Your easy, easy, whatever’s easy at the time

You have no future as a writer
because when you cut your wrists,
you don’t bleed with ink.
Because you are too distracted,
Too all-consumed
with your detestation for the world, and you
don’t know how to wait
You don’t know how to appreciate
You don’t raise the hobbyists around you
All you see are your own trenches

You have no future as a writer
if you’re ashamed of your essays,
and you bring down your metricals ‘fore ‘ven
‘parting them with the we-don’t-cares
Because you have to be patted first at the back
Or be told you’re special
Or depend on being celebrated
– Dahil, dahil, –
behind animate typewriters and beds
of slanting horses

You have no future as a writer
because you’d rather work
in call centers, laundromats,
waiting tables
in deadstaurants,
Dead end jobs,
your bury-me-heres,
your I-hate-everybody-here-but-I-need-the-moneys,
your I-am-above-all-y’all-here-because-I’m-artistics
And you go to bed and you wait
for the world to fix itself for you.

Don’t be a dumdum, dear. Go put in the work.
And love the things you do right now no matter how above you are on ’em,
or so you desperately think.
You are not above the men and women who
wash their own clothes,
and make their own food,
and cry into microphones,
lulled to karaoke of everyday defeat

You have no future as a writer
because you’d shrink your ‘friends’ who fight for their
pen
and let them sip into your bitter,
into your barren point,
Your given-up soul
Just ask me, how
We have no future as writers
with our passive aggressive
snipen
always taking the
cheap motel rooms
than jerk the long game,
than starve with the geese,
than die with the dream,
than cry for confessors
whom’ve always believed.

If you don’t rouse running from bed with eyes, teary in sand, do something else
If you have to burn your belly with vodka ‘fore falling to atmo, do something else
If you don’t go ‘nto
almost panic-attacks, head crushing, neck-wringing
without blank
post-its, do something else
If you don’t talk to yourself, talk to yourself, scream to yourself, memorize to yourself on ways home from the bank, do something else

I have no future as a writer
because all I write about is sophomoric teenage nonce
Waah! He don’t love me!
Blaah! He don’t care!
Get over yourself, estupido!
Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
You can’t just rhyme to be a lover, and don’t you
lash out. But we
really have no future as writers
if that’s all within our small, small
radius
if that’s all we can
put into notebooks, then
Find another
Time Killer. Settler in the uncaring void. Become alcoholics. Lie with the depressed. And fuck your brains out. Double pen
-etrate.

You have no future as a writer
When you can’t even balance your verbs
Balance your words! Balance your verbs!
You have no future as a writer
because your tales are too obscure,
and petty, and tiring,
and pretentious,
and shock-dependent,
and aww-dependent,
Like you just am sure
That there is no room for your writing
in libraries, in museums, in art wikias,
in future versions of the Lourve, in pyrafuckinmids,
in oak strips, in
Cathedrals in the Air
You write for coffee shop posters
and meme factories like cult printpaganda,
and horny teenage boys,
undersexed moms, landing zones,
Landing zones

You have no future as a writer if you are so boring
so boring, so, so, so fucking boring

You have no future if you never
donate by your heart
and love from your feet
and walk with your hands
and hold with your head
and think with your mouth
and talk with your blood

 
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