I can no longer hold him at bay,

My old opponent.

My strength is gone.

Sapped.

Drained.

Knackered.

I am exhausted.

Too long have I

Plotted

And

Schemed.

But he knew.

He knew time

Was on

His side.

He knew

Eventually

I'd grow weary

Of

The fight.

So

I lay down my arms

And openly embrace

My old opponent.

Death.

If I had a Pony

If I had a pony

I'd let you ride him.

We could feed him

Carrots

And oats

And little cubes of

Sugar.

And maybe an

Apple.

A sweet Gala,

Not a tart

Granny Smith.

We could ride

To a field

Awash with flowers,

And I could let down

My hair.

Literally and figuratively.

Allowing myself to be

Vulnerable.

Just for a minute,

While you gaze into my eyes,

And whisper,

"I love your work".

But the truth is,

Your assistant

Thinks I'm a

Drama Queen.

"We don't expect you to sell your soul

In order to participate in this workshop".

Well,

FUCK YOU BITCH.

I'm not inclined

To accept

Your condescending attitude

Towards me

Or

My writing.

So the next time,

A writer

Must pass,

On one of your

Writing Workshops,

Instruct your

Assistant

To reply,

"Sorry you can't participate".

Because if you

Think

You are

Ernest

or

Buke

or

Even

Jack.

You're not.

Your perception

Of your skills

Are a figment

Of

Your

Miniscule

Imagination.