Poor punctuation does not a poet make,
Nor clay-stained fingers a sculptor;
Metaphors are not always literature,
Critics and authors may both mistake.

So though I grasp both sonnet and rhyme,
I cannot thus claim fellowship
With lofty scribes or howling bards
And voices that transcend time.

And I haven’t found any thumbprint divine
Neither halo, talisman nor scar;
That sanctifies my right to write
And makes effortless my practice lines.

I have neither ecstasies nor visions,
Just a mass-produced pen and ticking mind,
And an occasional string of words glows for me:
Enforcing the addiction of wordy ambitions.