Books Poem by Helen Clare SMITH

Would someone please write a book,
a book about why people write books,
there's just so many.
There's at least one on every coffee table
And shelves bulging everywhere,
more than you could read in a lifetime
(and this breaks my heart) .

There are libraries full of them
for those who have nothing better to do
than to borrow and return piles of them
pages everywhere.

Or spend countless hours
scrolling to find just the book.
Rabbit trails of ecstasy and escape
promises looming large.

Worse yet, is to go to shops
where these cast offs have withered
these places where,
for a few miserable pennies
someone might gather them up

And to think, every word
in every used volume
was labored over,
and not a few rejection notices
suffered, and tears shed.
They bloomed and died
and now lie unwanted, abandoned
(and this too breaks my heart)

Savvy pens ride the crest
with themes that are current
or historical, or not
they maybe make a million or two
until the next guru wears the garland
to crash on the has-been pile.
(This breaks my heart)

And so, I ask my inner muse
why would I want to write a book
dreaming briefly of the limelight
should I be knighted
to then face a dusty requiem
in the recycle bin
For whom doth my bell toll?
(This is breaking my heart)

I therefore defer to the "greats",
the ones that have said it all already
and albeit very well said.
Thank you, dear Shakespeare, Milton
and Atwood.
This should be enough for me
I accept this bequeathment
You've saved me a lot of trouble
(and this thought heals my heart) .