A Writer Poem by bob barci

The little liked man
doesn’t know what to do.
He hasn’t got a life
so he buries himself in something
he thinks will make people adore him.
He calls himself a writer,
the best, darn, writer, in these here parts.
Traveling from place to place,
he recites and talks about his writings.
He thinks everyone loves it.
The man just doesn’t see
that his writings bore the heck
out of all who hear it.
Yet, he insists on ramming it down your throat
by thinking he has to be at all
the recital halls, bars, churches,
and wherever readings are held, everyday.
He wants recognition,
so he forces himself on you.
The man is bored,
he doesn’t have a life.
His writings clearly state that.
He puts you down
thinking it makes himself look good.
He knows that there are better writers
and it bothers him.
So, he tries to make you look bad
so that people will think that he
is the only one worth listening to.
His attempts fail,
as they only force people away.
His bad attitude and childish tantrums
get him nowhere fast.
For whatever reasons,
he’s jealous of all the other writers.
Until this man grows up,
he’ll never have a life.