I know smart people lusting to belong
among the class of writers who are famed.
They want to fashion fiction or a song
of which no other writer’d be ashamed.
Imagining the honors to be claimed,
the signings, the distinction day and night,
they dream of when success will be obtained,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
As one they want to stand above the throng
of readers not considered, never named.
Distracted by the coffee, wine or bong,
and seldom putting ink where topic’s aimed,
they bide their time till inspiration’s flamed,
when only work gives brilliance to that light.
Intention’s by procrastination maimed,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
Their cravings are consistent and so strong,
I don’t believe such passion can be blamed.
But how they try to satisfy it’s wrong,
and by no tactics little can be gained.
I want their attitudes to be reframed,
their efforts pushed to steady sturdy height.
Advising, they respond by looking pained,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
It isn’t any secret. No one gamed
the system. No one put them in their plight.
The work produces more than can be trained,
but they can’t find the stamina to write.
(Ballade)
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