I knew of a writer
who had to take the job as a kitchen cleaner
as no one wanted to publish his work
mind, he always had clean fingernails, when he sat
late at night composing words no one in the world
would ever bother to read.
When it became clear to him, he was an exercise
in futility, he quit his job grew a beard and his
fingernails grow long and *****.
Crossing a bridge, he was about to jump but was
stopped by his inner police officer who said it was
against the law.
He had to write is own way and not imitate
the famous writers of the past and since he didn't
have any style, took a long hot bath
and got a job as a security guard guarding tractors.
He doesn't write anymore but waits for
his style of writing to show him how, because
he saw no point of writing for the pleasure of it.