His InEffects

He writes his heart's exudations each lonely night

and posts them, later, in an after-pleasure daze.

His scribbles, without least qualification,

admittedly seek---without hesitation----

to fill his unrelenting need for approbation.

Who wants to read verse gathered in shelved, dusty books?---

these are not worth the effort to take second looks.

Such knowledge interferes with his singular dream---

to find attention he can leverage into praise

that will bolster his pitiful lack of esteem.


Yet, though he makes dramatic efforts, each one fails;

and Unsuccess, that harshest taskmaster, prevails;

and he is overtaken, once more, by malaise,

and "Woe is me" once more entitles his sad slight.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

Because in his Essay On Criticisn, Alexander Pope criticized the Alexandrine line as useless, I have used it hear to write about a (fictive) equally useless scribbler who does not respect Poetry as an art, but as a means to obtain the attention he believes he is owed, and that life has denied him.

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