Mt. Washington

Good authors are like beautiful trees,
pummeled by wind and brought to their knees,
blistering cold shutting them down;
gold, tattered leaves a humble crown.

But some writers live life covered up,
unhindered, unchanged, as they start to grow up.
These trees are abhorrent, perfection a bore,
with symmetric beauty, they’re just an eyesore.

Youth is too perfect, pain gives true fame.
Only the battered will have a good name.
Growth will bring change, and change will bring strife,
and writing is better when tempered by life.

I am a writer of queer quality,
strong roots, bears fruits, but no reason to be.
I’ve no reason to tell, no reason to write,
for I have been pampered for all of my life.

So I hope that the fires come early this year,
though other young trees will quiver with fear.
I’d rather be ash than ashamed of my tale
where cowardice always seems to prevail.

Youth is too perfect, pain gives true fame.
Only the battered will have a good name.
Growth will bring change, and change will bring strife,
And writing is better when tempered by life.

Give me drought, give me wind,
give me heat, give me pain,
for what I hate most
is monotonous rain.