I am a pseudonym, a pen name, a nom de plume. As such, I don't exist in a real sense. I exist to the extent that He lets me exist - at least that's what He tells me.
I am tenuous at best. My very existence is threatened every day - unless I start to pay my way. The threats, the loathing - it really is no way to not quite exist.
I tell Him that I do exist, that I am published. That strangers like what I do, call me literary; lyrical too. I tell Him that I will last for ever - that my achievements are real, tangible - and don't only exist as electrons.
He says I am not real, my achievements are nugatory, transitory; piffling. I tell him that he ought to be like me: lyrical, beautiful - like a cloud. The cloud. He knows the cloud I talk of. The cloud, for what it was, looked close enough to touch; small enough to catch in a butterfly net.
He tells me to shut up. He tells me He has a day job - and it can not wait. And that the cloud is His, and not mine.
disappointed. was looking for some nice poems and unfortunately the authors poetic style did not match mine. But since poetry such a personal thing, it's hard to critique as each person prefers different style and my preference is towards more prose style and more flowing writing. but for someone who prefers different style this may be just their kind of poetry book.