I made the choice, many months ago,

to write for me, my life, my soul;

not to give my words to a critic so cruel

as to conjure a devilish snarl.

Yes, a red pen has been my roaring trade,

but I administer it with disciplined charm,

not with a stroke of disenchanted rage

whose aim is to destroy and disarm.

Yet my words need an audience to feel alive,

though I don’t need approval, applause.

If I write for others, they own my work:

why on earth would I sell my heart short?