It seems sometimes that there’s no way for writers to make it in this world
Other than to sell out or become famous on Oprah or start some drama

(sometimes all three, not necessarily in that order)
So here I am trapped in my surly opinions and unfinanced college business
While miles south there’s a vet making thousands of dollars right now

(mostly checking her Facebook, gossiping about the boys in back)
True, she’s got loads of school debt and she’s working ungodly hours
But somehow it’s the image of the thing that matters and not the reality

(no one in a respected uniform should be allowed to act human)
Then there’s me up here, writing only when angry, when no one likes angry writers
And no one wants to give appreciation for complaining, bemoaning

(why, when most will do this free of charge?)
So I’m changing those opinions just by opening this file up and writing it all down, these
Pieces of my mind like old tableware on a child’s first wind chimes

(mismatched, unorganized, and yet stubbornly functioning alongside all the others)

I am reaching out; sending a voice into cyberspace and goodness knows where it’ll end up
My vet clicks the exit button and hurries to her next client; the Chihuahua people are here…again