Here starts lightly our little poem.
(This thing took me two-three hours in weaving)
Why not, I thought, I’d better show ’em
This trifle feeling that my mind’s heaving.

A girl had begun in days bygone
To send her writings o’er the net spreading;
And though warm welcome was not foregone,
She cared not. (Yeah, who are we kidding.)

All she wanted was to spin her story
And put it to praise or flames of others
She didn’t worry ’bout fame or glory,
Wished to reach more than mother or brothers.

But lo! Not even one review in;
Patient, she waited for days and hours
Before her screen, frustration stewing,
Not daring to leave, even for showers.

(Maybe I overdrew it a little,
A sad tendency I display at times;
Our heroine wasn’t so brittle.
That wasn’t a crime, I did it for rhymes.)

Vexed, she vowed on her very
Name that she would not give comments again.
John, Sue, Mary, Terry or Sherry
Could go to hell, they were no Lafontaine.

The first review came in, made her crazy,
(Woke her parents at three in the morning)
Sent her writing more words in a frenzy
(“Go to bed now, this is our last warning!”)

She’s fevered, to bland reviews addicted,
Like so many with this ill afflicted;
Countless stories her mind’s concocted
Her social life is dead, unexpected.

“I will write whatever I wish; I
Will never compromise on this matter.”
Earlier words are soon forgotten; shy
Girl wants praise that her ego will flatter.

Of her once-friends she’s today jealous
“My writing is way better, why are
They adored?” They’ve minions, overzealous,
She wished she could pry them away to her.

Recognition is now all she craves,
Popularity is her new fancy,
Thrown away are Faulkner or Graves
Her new masters are Rowling and Clancy.

Why this tame tale, you might wonder.
Truth to tell, I don’t really know either.
I just wanted to empty my sack.
Oh, and dear reader, pray, send me feedback.