you are complaining that time is lagging even as a series of unfortunate events sways your judgment. Stop complaining, you are better off leaving your face unmarred by frowns and my high reaching boot.
It doesn't matter that you cannot read nor have the where-with-all to learn to do so. I do not care.
I am un fair because I expect the expected, request the requested and go beyond the bow of safety and courtesy to ensure you have an outlet.
I am unfair.
If I reach further,
my bow will break with no waiting arms
to catch and hold
before I am eaten by the precipice of idiocy.
I am unfair.
Let my find your ground, hallowed by years of neglect and fervent ululation. I will listen to your diatribe and remain constant your sounding pole.
Because I am unfair, I will listen.
There is still my life tied somewhere in this poem. but I fear that the floodgates have opened and now I am writing because I cannot stop. Thus, topics may stray away from my life and onto something that just comes out.
For those of you that are honoring the dialog I desire, I thank you. T. S. Eliot never gave the chance. I wish to know, now that things are shift [in the whole ten days I've been doing this ;)], if what I write has merit.
You know... is it good, bad, or ugly? Am I making Clint Eastwood?
Eliot forgive me? I want my work accessible directly.
I feel wrong for producing things so quickly. Solace: editing will be tricky and consuming.
Do John or Clint, the only two really respectable poetry professors I've ever had, work so quickly. Clint did a book in a summer. Is now just my time? I am confused and over worried.