“Hey, I liked the latest poem you got published. I’m glad you post them on Facebook,” my colleague says.
“Cheers. Poetry’s just a hobby for me actually,” I say, not quite sincerely.
“I write poems myself,” he says, to my dismay.
“Can I email you some?” he asks.
My heart sinks.
“Sure, send me a couple,” I reply.
Later, I receive a few hundred.
I shudder at the spelling mistakes, the mangled grammar, their triteness, their unpublishability.
Truly this man should never put pen to paper.
“Well, did you read them?” he asks.
“Pretty impressive stuff,” I say, quite insincerely.
“Cheers. Poetry’s just a hobby for me actually,” I say, not quite sincerely.
“I write poems myself,” he says, to my dismay.
“Can I email you some?” he asks.
My heart sinks.
“Sure, send me a couple,” I reply.
Later, I receive a few hundred.
I shudder at the spelling mistakes, the mangled grammar, their triteness, their unpublishability.
Truly this man should never put pen to paper.
“Well, did you read them?” he asks.
“Pretty impressive stuff,” I say, quite insincerely.
