Writing fiction tears my heart from me,
Rips it right away,
Throws it on the discard pile,
To rot another day.
I try so hard to write some sense
That people might enjoy,
Yet find within my very self
A path without employ.
It costs me dearly, this path I wrought
With heart and mind and soul.
Spent I lie, all tossed and turned
As characters come and go.
Then publishing now the indie route,
On line, on sites, small fee,
Many readers come in fast,
So long I keep it free.
Yet price it now, this part of me
I dare to show, display,
And all the readers who read me free,
They all go run away!
I really hope that with this thought,
An experience proven citing,
It is more about humanity
Than a reflection on my writing.