Friday Blues
I’d like
To make
A
Little
Song,
But it
Feels
All
Wrong.
My
Troubles
Seem
Too big
To rate
A
Verbal
Jig.
I got
Yet
Another
Form
Rejection
Letter,
And
Am
Struggling
To feel
Better.
They
Never
Say
Why,
Which
Makes
Me want
To
Cry.
No on
Will
Ever
Read
My
Writing,
If I
Have
To keep
Fighting
Gatekeepers
And
Mailroom
Creepers.
So I
Lose
Hope,
And
Mope.
But this
Is it:
I can’t
Quit.
I’ll send
Out
Another
Query,
Although
It makes
Me
Weary,
And stop
Feeling
Dejected
Over
Being
Anonymously
Rejected.
I’d like
To make
A
Little
Song,
But it
Feels
All
Wrong.
My
Troubles
Seem
Too big
To rate
A
Verbal
Jig.
I got
Yet
Another
Form
Rejection
Letter,
And
Am
Struggling
To feel
Better.
They
Never
Say
Why,
Which
Makes
Me want
To
Cry.
No on
Will
Ever
Read
My
Writing,
If I
Have
To keep
Fighting
Gatekeepers
And
Mailroom
Creepers.
So I
Lose
Hope,
And
Mope.
But this
Is it:
I can’t
Quit.
I’ll send
Out
Another
Query,
Although
It makes
Me
Weary,
And stop
Feeling
Dejected
Over
Being
Anonymously
Rejected.
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