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?