EPTOn Writing Prose
The pages are yellowed, all dog-eared and battered.
I read, though my eyes do not cease to complain.
This book once again preconceptions has shattered,
I ponder its concepts, my thinking unfettered
On topics which yesterday would not have mattered.
The story has spread fertile spores in my brain.
I want to write, I strive to think,
To alter society’s mores.
My notebooks stay unmarred by ink
While fungus blooms out of the spores.
Miss Rand, what has led to this fateful direction?
My stories, unborn, seek to drive me insane!
Our roots are the same, we both aimed for perfection,
With Galt you stood up, brought about insurrection.
And I? Though I suffer, I fail to take action,
And mushrooms displace what remains of my brain.
I hope, I pray, I lust to write,
To shape, to mold coherent prose.
What crap! I press “delete” with spite,
As toadstools blossom from my nose.
I draft and redraft, trim it down. It is thinning.
From griping and moaning I vow to refrain,
And gripe right away: I’ve abandoned the meaning,
And mash the delete key. Another beginning
In this twisted game, with no prospect of winning,
Too little reward, and too much bloody strain.
