A Letter To The Writers Poem by Matthew Holloway

Why do we do this to ourselves
Writers, poets, songsmiths
Striping our souls bare, naked
Across a page beyond vulnerable
Our every thought, feeling open
A review to the critics and readers
Waiting to be typed into a comment section
As though such reviews are vital
As though that is all we are waiting for
Acceptance, applause a standing ovation
For another, others to say they know
Having read and felt each word
Bled out of our souls in ink and print
There, there upon a page a screen we are
Open, honest, naked, pure and ripe
Our every facet and being there
Why do we do this to ourselves
Writers, poets, songsmiths
Does the audience actually care
Inhale the thoughts, feelings, words
Or are they alike the Cricket crowd
On a summer's village green
Not paying attention
Clapping shouting ‘'good show''
Why do we do this, why do we do this
The rewards are scarce
And still, still we persist to write