MY LAMENT TO THE PIMP OF PROSE
My words, each a pearl, perfect and pure I expose
For examination, only to have the brightest stripped,
Disemboweled by the hard-hearted,
Laser-eye of The Pimp of Prose.
I wonder what am I doing.
Why do I spend my days seeking,
striving to draw the attention of the unseen face,
The Pimp of Prose?
So eager am I to please this peddler of the soul,
I fret and stew to dress and redress my meager offering,
hoping to one day delight the demi-God,
The Pimp of Prose.
Keeping the lure of gold in his mind’s eye,
I know he will choose, not mine, but the prominent name.
My heart shrivels with each rejection.
I weep, my shame exposed.
Over, and over I crawl on bended knee,
Place my words written with my blood,
Before that elusive, mocking crown.
I serve every syllable, bright and shiny, upon the alter.
I endure the snorts of disdain:
Not good enough.
The wrong shape.
The wrong color.
Don’t need another one of these.
And I wonder what makes me think I could ever please
THE PIMP OF PROSE?
By Dorothy A. Bell