the writer, seduces his readers
with life, out of reach
while he smokes his cigarettes,
welcoming death
not wanting, or needing
a second chance.
he drinks, not to get drunk
but usually this happens
vomiting in his toilet bowel
he writes about it
with glorious words.
Then,
he does something else
and
it’s never been done before
while morons are climbing Mount Everest
he
does something hard
that
he
will never brag about
That’s what writing is
Then,
somebody finds out
and more people come
and they want fame
because they want to be different
but they don’t really want
to live on the outside
they want to feel special.
When a writer is dead
other writers will try to be like him
They will only manage to get drunk
to get cancer
to become a copy, of a once beautiful creator
they
don’t want to be themselves
they
want to be somebody
else
as long as they get recognized.
Intellectual Shaman 
Omg I absolutely love this
LikeLiked by 1 person
So glad Tut Yashar!!!
LikeLiked by 1 person
😊🙏🏼
LikeLiked by 1 person
Nietzsche once wrote about only finding “Apes of his ideal” or something like that — you poem reminds me of that sentiment — but really – to be fair – we are all born without knowing who we are anyway — is it such a great sin to mimic those we admire?
LikeLiked by 2 people
We mimic those we admire, but only to a point. Then we have to become, whatever it is, we are going to become.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Beautiful!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Darth Rirou!!! 🙂
LikeLike
something that should resonate with the masses. but, more than likely only be understood by the few. i have found myself drawn towards your work of late and this is up at the top of the pile. imitation is possibly one of the greatest tributes that can be paid to any artist.
LikeLiked by 2 people