Conversations with myself...

Well conversations with myself... Si, much loco

I Say..

What then is the point of writing
seems like such a waste of time
enough volumes to overwhelm the senses
works more shallow than mine

And they say..

Well, none of your works are interesting
hardly reflect the proclivities of this age
in fact, your tone is somewhat condescending
fueled by your frustrations and rage

I say..

I write for my own satisfaction
opinions hardly matter to me
I understand that I have no following
and I say this with no uncertainty

They say..
Then, why such a fuss are you making?
If your works, no one will ever read
Are you Sir, guilty of narcissism
a malady that affects authors indeed?

I say..
I admit that I do need an audience
and want others to share in my lies
It does indeed stroke my fragile ego
A notion, I both love and despise

They say..
Well then, for this, there's no remedy
In this agony, you must dwell alone
It's a purgatory of your own choosing
for those who dare to etch on stone

The End

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