A real writer

Tell me, are you a real writer? I mean, does anybody buy what you write or publish it or anything?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Blake Edwards, 1961)

I guess I’m not a real writer
since no one buys my tortuous words
and I haven’t published anything—
at least not in English—
unless you count the bottomless pit
of the world wide web. But let’s start small
and get yourself that box first.


More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com

The leaden hours

There are nights,
restless, leaden hours
of dripping thoughts
when words miss the mark,
a metaphor doesn’t land well,
the trash bin overflows,
yet you keep scribbling,
revising the revised
as a habitual alternative
to sheep-counting.


More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com