Its just vanity publishing, they brushed it aside,
If you can get 10 books sold, it'll be a matter of pride.
Published author, my foot, you just want that added, to your name,
You'll end up gifting books - that people will read them, is a tall claim.
If your poems were any good, they would have been lapped, by agents,
Publishers would line outside your house- pay you in dollars, not cents.
Critics would tear you apart, or applaud you, as per their whim,
Not ignore as if you didn't exist, leave your poems anonym.
Posterity would judge fairly, you cite Van Gogh,
Each creation a masterpiece, not pearls that are faux.
It takes an eye of a connoisseur, to behold their charm,
Are you ready to go down like Vincent, driven to self harm?
You can write me off, all you like, but my poems will speak,
I'll keep sending messages in a bottle - week after week.
PS: This is the 100th poem I have posted on this blog in this calendar year. Thanks for reading!
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