I could pen a pretty poem without putting personality in it.
I could pretend I was a poet and publish it praying that people like it publicly.
A pretense of perseverance and pressure precluding this precious gem will get profane applause.
Petty pioneers of the art may place their hands together in a proclamation of performance and purity.
But personally I will push all praise or prize past my growing head because I know, pathetically, I didn't peruse my mind.
The laziness is palpable.
The roughness is plain.
The boredom is pure.
This poem was produced in a paltry handful of minutes.
Will it persevere? Or pass out?
Please. Don't pander to my pragmatic assumptions.
Place your own price.
Peers! Press me towards perfection.