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
1 responses to “Poem by DABell, “A Pimp to Prose””
Chris Fine
February 7th, 2013 at 23:46
I like this Dorothy – a lot. I think it must be the lament of just about every writer. But you said it in such a delightful way. Perhaps the only one we need please, instead of the pimp of prose, is our own inner artist. The one that knows when the work is perfectly complete. ;~D Much love, Chris