Morning Eyes Poem by Jon Butter

You look at the pages that sweat and chewed fingernails produced
Over way too many hours that could have been spent at the beach.

You peruse, with polite distance and gentle judgment, the work.

I wait. Me. The one who keeps putting his whole guts into trying to
Do something that is as much stardust and elf magic as talent.

Write a great poem, you are a poet. Write a strong article, you are published.
Publish a non fiction book and you are an author. Spend a decade on a novel, have no guarantee it will ever touch a reader’s hungry hands, keep driving yourself to write when everyone else is playing, drinking, loving and living, and:

You still may not be a writer.