Today I discovered something new,

Or maybe I knew it anyway –

Subconsciously, perhaps, the knowledge

Was lying within me, a coiled snake,

Waiting to strike. But, what I don't know

Is exactly what this information means to me;

I write because I'm lonely

Surely, reviews are but a link

To others like me? People portrayed

Through the imagery of poetry?

And when I'm miserable

Because no one's reviewed,

Well maybe it's more feelings of seclusion

Than needing someone to pat my ego

('Cause criticism's always appreciated)

And maybe needing someone

To talk (type?) to me

Is the most pathetic line of all.