The Way of the Writer

A traveling pod of poets visit a prison. They will listen. Only a select few struggled to break in. They left feeling free. Inmate 8756210 stole a notebook.

He was sending selections to only major magazines for months. Not one response. Breaking away from bars he sang in on the weekends, he became a publisher. Only the professionals should submit. Rejected everyone, like society does to ex-cons, had to make room for his masterpieces.

She wrote poems as a child. Aww so cute. Now she teaches adorable adults how to spell. P-O-E-M. They offered her t-i-s-s-u-e-s.

At the night college, professor of literature lectured on the use of paradox. The wide eyed students slept soundly through class. The professor was so respectful he let them study. He died alone in France in the 16th century.

You read poetry from prolific living poets of the past. Really? You opened your laptop. Maybe just one world will recognize you. Hurry, we are waiting.

I wanted to write perfect portraits as a major for meaning. Searched median income range. I was almost late for work. At the gallery they trickled in, in front of me. "What is that?" Guide paints a picture of abstract art. I sat the broom down to listen. 1 million dollars! On the way home I bought some paint.